


Take It All

by newtandthediamonds



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Bill Denbrough, Bill Denbrough is a Good Dad, Blood and Gore, Breastfeeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, Childhood Trauma, Come Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Dead Georgie Denbrough, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual marriage, Exes to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Love, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Implied/Reference Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Stillbirth, Long-Term Relationship(s), Loss of Virginity, Memory Loss, Mentions of Suicidal Ideation but No Graphic Depictions or Scenes, Minor Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Reader-Insert, Romantic Fluff, Sex, Sexual Humor, True Love, Unsafe Sex, Woman on Top, Writer Bill Denbrough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 192,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtandthediamonds/pseuds/newtandthediamonds
Summary: Bill and Y/N, young members of the Loser’s Club and now lovers, navigate their lives together as they grow up, find themselves, and desperately try to escape the trauma of their past by holding onto one another for dear life.





	1. Take It All

**Author's Note:**

> I finally made an AO3 account and so I'm posting all of my fics here as well as tumblr now!  
> Leave a comment if you liked this! This deviates a lot from the canon story in the book.

There was nothing they could do to prepare them for a relationship that would grow to be so serious.

Bill Denbrough sits on the edge of his mattress, his knee bouncing anxiously. His eyes gaze back and forth from his open doorway to the hallway beyond.

He hadn't meant to talk about this kind of intimacy with his girlfriend. As they grew up and their relationship grew with them, he found himself having more and more of these thoughts about her. More needs, the consuming kind that took up every part of him with flame-like intensity. The same kind that at is burning through him now, as he waits in silence for the girl he loves to return from down the hall. When they did talk about it though, through a long and awkward conversation, they'd planned for a night when both of his parents were out of town for the weekend.

Y/N shuts off the bathroom light off and strides down the hallway in near silence.

His parents go out of town once a month with Grandma and Grandpa Denbrough, driving down three hours to his father's childhood home to see the family. They'd stopped taking Bill years ago after their youngest son had died and they grew to care less and less for their eldest. The neglect was more intense soon after the death of his brother but still, years later, even now that he's graduated from Derry's High School, they don't pay him much mind. It's this same neglect that gives him freedom such as having his girlfriend over for days at a time.

For these weekends they spend together, a tradition since they were only friends, they'd spend their time in the most innocent of ways. Playing board games, watching movies, and listening to music. Later on, as they'd begun to date, these weekends were the only piece of good they had in their lives. Though they still played board games and watched movies, they slowly veered into more romantic activities like cuddling while watching these movies and instead of talking while one of his mixtapes played in the background, they'd kiss. For hours and hours, as long as they'd manage until she left his house with kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks. But even on those passionate days they never went farther than second base.

There is nothing to bridge the silence now in the empty house. No movies. No Mixtape. Only the soft pattering of her bare feet on the hardwood floor of his hallway and her figure slowly coming into his view.

Bill's breath hitches in the back of his throat at the sight of her, those legs uncovered seeing that the only piece of clothing she wears is his shirt. Things have changed now and it's the sight of her in this, having to roam his eyes up her figure and bite back his groan at where the shirt's hem falls at the top of her thighs, that makes his stomach feel light and fluttery. He can't believe that his childhood best friend is standing in front of him, all but naked if not for his shirt. His shirt. The sight of it makes some foreign, territorial part of him unleash. A part of him she's never seen before because he's always been the boy down the street from Y/N.

She closes the distance between them in an instant and takes his face in her hands. Their eyes meet, a welled up pit of desire and love starting to pour out in the tender gaze.

"You spaced out for a minute there," She says and doesn't dare to make an advance until he gives her a sign of consent, "Are you alright?"

He rubs his brow and shakes his head, emitting a soft laugh.

"I'm r-really nervous."

He swears he can't love her more than he already does until she nods, and presses a kiss into his hair.  
"We don't have to do this tonight," Her stare to him doesn't falter once, "We don't have to go too fast or jump the gun here-"

"I want t-to-"

Bill pulls her to him by her waist, one of his hand brushing her hair and pulling her forward to bury his face in her shoulder. He breathes in her scent and sighs out loudly.

"I want you..." He whispers against her neck.

Y/N has always been the kind of lover Bill needed. She picked him up from the ground after what had happened to them that fateful summer, she'd given him his first kiss, she'd taken his love and gave it back to him fiercely. So she kisses him with that ferocity and slides onto his lap with a gentleness he didn't know she could possess through such a passionate moment.

They set a rhythm with the way they move around each other and instead of finding her heart racing as it always does when their kisses intensify, she feels a deadly calm settle over her. She never figured that it would be so easy. But with him it never is too hard to figure things out or try something new.

She pulls back from him and he whines-actually whines-at the loss of contact, making her eyes grow wide with amusement.

"S-Shut up," Bill says playfully and his face flushes with color.

But she doesn't say a thing at the embarrassing noise he let out and instead reaches down to the hem of his shirt. He doesn't breathe while she trails her fingertips up his abdomen, in fact, he couldn't even if he wanted to. This is the farthest they've ever gone before and he isn't exactly experienced...

The sounds of their kissing bridges the gaps between the silence of the room and the flickering light of the candle and lamp on his bedside table illuminate their bodies in a soft yellow light. His eyes flutter shut when runs her fingers through the soft strands of his hair, brushing it back from his face

"Mmm," Bill lets out a soft moan against her neck at the slow moving of her unclothed center against his.

Her legs tighten around his hips and suddenly the world is a lot smaller to them, suddenly the world is just a room with two people in it. Her world is the boy with his face buried in her neck. The boy who's been beside her all along. He wasn't ready for her when she walked into his life. It a year before all that had happened that one summer, before Georgie. Before everything. And slowly but surely, they started to become each others' best friend. It, the evil presence that nearly killed the Losers, changed the dynamic of their relationship though.

They were all broken and clinging to each other for dear life. After all they'd gone through together, it seemed nearly impossible to look on the bright side of anything. It was the same for all of them until one by one the Losers started to pick themselves up from the ground until the only ones left in the fits of despair and trauma were Y/N and Bill. And in the darkness, they found each other.

Five years later, here they are, still holding on for dear life and praying nothing will ever keep them apart for the rest of their lives.

He balls the fabric of the shirt she wears into his fist against her lower back and meets her the needy roll of her hips with his. The sound that falls from her lips when his mouth finds that sweet spot on her neck, gently nipping and sucking on it, draws up a feeling of unrelenting desire in the pit of his stomach. It isn't too long before the writhing of her body against his becomes too much and she can feel a steady hardness pressing against her through the material of his underwear.

They pull away from each other, the wet skin on her neck glistening with hues of maroon and purple lining her jaw like the violet of a thunderstorm.

"I didn't m-mean to leave a m-m," Bill's fingers brush over the sensitive darkened spot under her chin as he whispers, "m-mark."

She shakes her head and swallows back the thump in her throat.

"I don't mind."

His eyes widen in surprise as she begins to take control of the situation, nudging him to lay down. But before she can push him back on the mattress he flattens his hand on her lower back while, gently and quite clumsily, flipping them over. Y/N unwraps her legs from around his hips to slide up to the headboard, pulling him along with her.

But they stop just under the pillows and they're kissing again before either of them can register the change in position.

It'd be a lie if Bill were to say he'd never thought about this happening between them. There were many nights through his teen years when he thought about this very thing with her. When he'd think through every scenario of her being in his bed or them being in love. But now that they're both her, now that the only thing separating them is an over-worn button down and his underwear, he feels the same inescapable need to be with her. Now, as his hands run down the center of her chest. Now, as he's with her as he's been dying to be all these years, he's calm.

Both of them are relaxed and their hearts don't beat as wildly as they once thought they would when they inevitably ended up entangling themselves into the sheets in a night of unyielding love. He doesn't hesitate as he starts to unbutton the buttons on the shirt she borrowed from him. For once, it all makes sense and there's nowhere else he's supposed to be other than right here with her.

Y/N's breath shudders at the cold air hitting her naked body. The warm fabric of the flannel slides over the peak of her breasts and exposes her completely to him. The first sign of nervousness of the night is cut short by the boy above her and his averting eyes.

"You're allowed to look you know," She says with a short, breathy giggle at the respectful nature of her boyfriend.

The corners of his eyes crinkle with the sheepish smile brandishing his face and his face flushes with color for what must be the millionth time tonight.

He roams his eyes from her beautiful face, admires the love bite he'd unintentionally left under her jaw, and then takes in the sight of her in all of her stunning glory. Her skin is practically glowing, so soft looking that he wants to run his hands over it over and over again.

"Can I um-" He stumbles over the words, "Can I t-tuh-touch you?"

If it weren't for the situation and the fact that she's looking him straight in the eyes right now, he would have shut his eyes and sighed from how embarrassed he is. He has never done this before. The only time he's ever seen a naked girl was when Richie found his mom's VHS of The Blue Lagoon and the only reason he sat through it was that Richie begged him to, claiming it was "soft porn", and because the plot had him interested enough to sit through it. But he'd never seen Y/N naked and while Brooke Shields had a nice body in the movie, there's no girl he's interested in seeing naked but her. His desire for her is too much, too all-consuming, for anyone else to be an option.

Y/N, on the other hand, has seen Bill naked. There was a day when the Losers' Club had gone to the Quarry at night a month ago. They were huddled around the fire, talking about stupid things when they got onto the topic. Apparently, everyone but Eddie and Bill had gone skinny dipping before. They dared them both but only Bill went in, due to Eddie waving off the dare and threatening to push Richie in if he even thought of making him do it. So last month, in the partial darkness she saw him undress and jump off the small ledge into the water. As soon as he jumped in, everyone else dressed down to their underclothes and followed him in.

She looks up at him, then nods, her hand closing over his to guide it up to her chest first. Before he makes contact with her, she lets her hand fall from his and instead grip him by his shoulder. Her eyes flutter shut when his palm slides over her skin, down her neck until his touch rises up the incline of her chest and his hand is cupping the tepid skin. His nerves are just now starting to intensify again and as he leans down to press his lips to her chest, his heart starts to hammer against his rib cage.

His blue eyes meet hers and he tentatively fiddles with the edge of the shirt, stopping. He asks, "Can I-you know-k-k-kiss you?"

She laughs again, that gorgeous laugh, and takes his face in her hands. Y/N is still calm but can tell he's on edge now after asking that. So she runs her thumb along the edge of his bottom lip comfortingly and when it rests over the center of his lips, he presses an almost unnoticeable kiss to the pad of her finger.

"You don't have to ask."

So Bill makes her his canvas. His hands grip her on any open space he can find along the path between her shoulders and hips, to pull her tightly against him and at least have something to hold him off while he pleasures her. Her skin glistens in the candlelight with his wet kisses trailing from her neck to her breasts with even a few more little purple-ish marks lining the soft skin next to her peaked nipple. He cups the side of her breast and nips on the skin, soothing the love bites with tender, sweet kisses.

But then she makes a sound that makes him wince with pleasure, a sound that makes the last layer between them feel all too tight on him.

"Bill," Y/N breathes out.

The shudders of her body against his ministrations, her abdomen jerking inward when his lips brush under her navel, make him feel dizzy. But he stops short at the sight of a scar. A scar stretching from hip bone to hip bone. If he's being honest, its a painful looking slash and the sight of it makes him want to cry at the memory of when it happened. He's pulled upwards now, propping his weight up on his elbows while his fingers brush over the healed wound.

Her voice is an entirely different tone when she mutters his name this time, "Bill-"

After all these years, she still has the scar from when It had cut her in the cistern. She still has nightmares of that moment sometimes and the look on her friends faces as she dropped to the ground. She was lucky to make it out of there alive. The doctors told her that if it had been any deeper, her insides may have been falling out and it took quite a lot of lying on the Losers' parts to make a believable story. A story where Henry Bowers had taken a knife and nearly gutted the girl. It was the only believable story they could make since the Derry police had pinned the disappearances on the troubled boy anyways.

Y/N has always been insecure about her scar. Every time she changes clothes, goes swimming, or showers she is reminded of the summer when she and her friends had almost died. The summer after Georgie Denbrough died. The summer she nearly lost all of her friends to It's rampage for blood.

"It's okay," Bill says, "You don't h-h-have to hide from me."

His fingers clasp the flannel still hanging off her shoulders, pulling the fabric out of the way of the scar so he can see it better. Her eyes glaze over with tears and well up until one lone drop glides down her cheek. She silently cries as he kisses over the bump of her hip bone first, his fingers rubbing languid circles along her sides the whole time. He kisses every inch of that scar. He takes his time and lets her hold his hand through it all. He lets her breath shudder and her hand quake as he holds her's tighter. He lets her grieve and love and take it all.

The kisses rise from the scar, up her body until their lips meet again. They stay like this for what feels like forever to both of them, their mouths moving numbly against one another's until the night is lost in a loop of these tender kisses.

He pulls away, still clutching the fabric of the shirt in his fists, and looks down at her to find the tears in her eyes. He doesn't know how he didn't notice it while they were kissing since he now can feel the wetness of her tears on his own cheeks.

"W-Why are you crying?" He asks.

She bites her lip and says so quietly that he barely hears, "It's just-I've never had someone love me as much as you do right now and it's making me cry. Because you're the best person I've ever known."

This changes everything within him. It lights him on fire, fuels him on. Bill presses another kiss to her lips but this one is different. It's filled with all of the pent-up love and desire of the night, it tells her he reciprocates everything she said without having to use words. So she stops crying. She doesn't hesitate to dip her hand under the waistband of his underwear and slip the clothing off of his body so she can feel his hardness pressing into her thigh.

Silence rings through the room as they work out the mechanics of it all; him reaching over to the bedside table and pulling out the square package he'd hidden inside a book. Richie and Stan had gone to the Pharmacy with him last week to get the condoms and ever since that day, all Richie has done is annoy him and crack sex jokes whenever the couple is around. Stan had just looked the other way, promising to keep Richie from blurting out something about it in front of the rest of their friends; ever the more level-headed half to the whole that was Richie and Stan as a pair.

But once they breach the awkward phase where he's been putting it on and she had to lay back idly to wait for him, the tempo of their night returns back to normal.

Y/N holds to him by his shoulders again, her fingernails scratching his skin with the tight grip. The space between their bodies and faces wanes with the passing seconds. And now that he's switched off the lamp, the candlelight is all that's left to light them. The fire flickers shadows across their bare chests that are pressing against each other with every rising breath. His skin is warmer now and the red color from the candlelight colors his usually pale skin in a subdued scarlet wash.

Her back arches to press herself to his chest and their lips catch in a slow, lazy kiss. It's a night of firsts for them. A night of discovering and exploring each other for the first time. So Bill has to keep this thought in the back of his mind as he guides himself inside of her, having to remind himself it only their first time so that he doesn't become too hasty or move to swiftly. He reminds himself that they have the rest of their lives, but only tonight can be their first. It occurs to him far too late in the night that he'll be her first, her only as of now. And hopefully forever.

She tries to hide the pained expression from her face as he slides in and the resistance of her tightness makes him bite his lip.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"Yeah," She whispers into the small space between them, "I just need a second."

The locks of his auburn hair are silk under her hands and she brushes it back from his forehead over and over until the pressure at her core eases. He looks at the girl beneath him, taking every bit of restraining he has not to groan at the sight and feeling of her around him. Y/N nudges her hips up against his to break him out of his pleasured daze and lifts her head off of the pillow, claiming his lips as her own.

"Please," The words are muffled as she murmurs them into his mouth.

Bill draws back his hips with a painstaking slowness and eases himself back to her. Whatever control he had to keep himself from moaning lets go the moment he's buried back within her. He can't help but blush once he let out the sound though, but all she does is pull back from his lips and look up at him. The pain from earlier isn't gone. It's only subdued with every slow thrust.

"That feels," Her voice is soft and breathy but she's interrupted by a particularly hard, and involuntary, jerk of his hips into her's at the sound of her talking, "good."

His blush doesn't fade and her comment only makes the twinge of pink on his cheeks brighten, followed by an embarrassed smile.

When they'd had the conversation about tonight a week ago, he took it upon himself to do a little research. He'd dug up his mother's cheesy and filthily smutty romance novels and read a few of them. Obviously, there were some things he couldn't manage to get through without smiling to himself with the deepest shade of red blooming on his cheeks or glancing around his living room to check if anyone was walking in. He read a few of her Cosmopolitan magazines as well, taking note of what girls apparently like. All that came of the week of reading from his mom's books and magazines was a knowledge of the female body he didn't know he could have, and even more of a need for Y/N. He spent the week wanting her.

The pace of every thrust into her increases and he can feel himself trembling. Neither of them bother to silence the moans that are elicited from the deep movements, thanking god that the Denbrough's left them alone for the weekend. A weekend where they can make love without worrying about anyone barging in, where they can make symphonies from their moans and cries of pleasure without any fear. The time they spend with each other can last forever.

Bill's movements start to falter as they continue on and slowly she watches him start to unravel and she could swear that she's never seen anything as beautiful. Their kiss is interrupted by the world-shattering show of his orgasm, his lips parting and his forehead resting on her's as he buries himself inside of her with one last thrust; the moan that escapes him so hot that it makes the pit of her abdomen pulse with pleasure.

They stay this way for a few minutes and are clinging to each other with closes eyes and sweat slick chests until he draws himself back from her. His heaving chest still hits her's with every sharp intake of breath while he disposes of the condom in the trash bin beside his bed.

He falls back down on top of her and hums in contentedness at the feeling of her fingertips pushing back the strands of hair that were stuck to his forehead with a thin layer of sweat.

He props himself up on his elbow, glancing down at her with a concerned expression.

"D-D-Did you-" Bill pauses, searching for the right word, "Uh, did you f-finish?"

It's her turn to blush now while shaking her head no and sheepishly turning her eyes away from him in embarrassment.

She says, "No...I think I was close though."

And she isn't lying. She was so painfully close to reaching that peak. So close to the other side where the ecstasy and euphoria of this were taking her. He frowns at this, despite having heard how common it is for girls to not finish their first time, and meets her gaze again.

But then a thought processes in his head, of something he'd read in one of those books last week. It's naughty and was one of those scenes he could barely read through without smiling stupidly to himself, but he doesn't want to leave her unsatisfied. After all, he's her first, her only, and he wants her to feel how he felt a moment ago. He wants to be the blinding passion blurring her vision, wants her to remember the feeling of his lips on her for days after they part.

Bill doesn't say a single word as he moves down the front of her body and his hands gently spread her legs.

"Bill," Y/N whispers in surprise but doesn't stop him on his descent down.

He starts at the curve where her knee and inner thigh connect, sloppily kissing the sensitive skin. Her eyes widen with the realization of the moment. His kisses move swiftly, deftly down the inside of her leg until he's reached her center. The anticipation breaks her down into bits and pieces. Her fist curls into the sheet as he moves around the spot where she's needing his attention most, where she throbs in that same anticipation of a sensation she's never felt before.

And his first move towards the apex of her thighs makes her tremble, his first lick to her core makes her mouth part instantly. Y/N didn't know it was possible to feel this kind of way with someone until tonight. His lips move diligently, slick with her wetness, and his tongue sweeps her without a shred of mercy or timidity. He works her over again, having to pin her hips against his mattress to keep her from writhing and arching into the pleasure. Her heels dig into his shoulder blades so hard it nearly hurts and her fingers rake through his hair.

All she wants to do is touch him. She wants all of him. She wants more. Because her stomach is starting to tighten. Suddenly she's back up where she'd been earlier and all she needs is more to push her over that edge. Y/N lets out a moan so suggestive that she can feel his lips curl against her. But then his smile is lost in the act of pleasing her, he hovers his chest off the bed and leans into her now; his hands flat on her hips.

He can feel her body shuddering and tensing at her orgasm. The spreading fire that had built up in the pit of her abdomen, coiling and pulsing with an aching push for him to give her more bursts into an explosion. She feels weightless, she feels her the world crumbling around her and now there isn't anything but this. She holds his hand tightly through the climax and her love for him reaches an all-time high, gripping his hand as if letting go would end it all, as if she'd wake up and realize it was all a dream or fall away from him.

Her hips aren't pinned down anymore and her back lifts off the bed while she comes down from what had just happened. Her shallow breaths are rapid at this point.

Bill says nothing, since he himself is exhausted and still sensitive from his own climax a few minutes ago, and rests his head against her stomach. Her hands cradle his head, absentmindedly caressing his face while her breathing starts to slow. A satiated hint of a smile spreading across his tired face.

Her body tingles with a weak struggle to move aside to let him climb up beside her. But she manages to push herself up to make room for him and falls back down the moment he's back to the top of the bed.

"How w-was it for you?" Y/N asks.

Her head rests beside his on the pillow.

"It was great," He whispers, "What about y-yuh-you?"

Their relationship had always been filled with love and passion, but not like this. They'd kissed and confessed their love. But never expressed it as much as they needed to until tonight. All of those sweet and innocent moments are still times they cherish but this night can't be topped.

"It was the best thing I've ever felt, I just-you were so perfect, Bill."

He exhales deeply and pulls her into him, trailing his hands back to the flannel hanging off her shoulders to button it up. The truth is that he doesn't feel like he gave her enough. He wants her to take all of him, he wants to give her everything.

"You were p-perfect too. I'm sorry I didn't last long and probably messed e-e-everything up but-"

She leans forward and kisses him deeply, cutting off the nervous rambling before it can even start.

His heart skips while she still holds his face in her hands and looks into his eyes with a confidence behind her gaze as they pull back from one another.

"You were," Y/N pauses, "perfect. And I mean it."

Bill leans forward and kisses her slowly. He kisses her for as long as he'd like.

Their relationship has twisted and turned in the worst of ways and the best of ways. It's built up with quick glances in classes or at the quarry, with their goodbye kisses, in late night conversations, and these weekends where they can disappear within each other. Where nothing else exists outside of his room. Where they can take it all.


	2. Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after and they can't keep their hands to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be smut in every single chapter, I don't make the rules. But this all is basically just Y/N and Bill adoring each other and being stupid in love.

It isn't the bright morning light that spills into the room from his windows that wakes her up, or Bill stirring beside her that wakes her up, it's simply happiness. It's how content and well-rested she is after last night that ends up opening the girl's eyes from her deep sleep. After experiencing a whole new world of pleasure, she'd dozed off quite quickly and he had buttoned up the flannel that rested on her shoulders. But halfway through the night, from being far too hot in the room with shut windows and still desperately wanting some skin to skin contact, she tossed the flannel across the room and cuddled into him without a care in the world.

Now, their naked chests meet with every rise and fall of their breathing. She yawns softly, nudging her boyfriend with her foot.

"Bill," Y/N says into his warm skin and moves on to nudging him with her knee.

Her heart has been indefinitely chained to his after last night. Now she can feel herself closer to him on a level she didn't know was possible before. The intimacy of it all scared both of them at first, but now she understands the ache she has for him after only getting a tease of what is to come from here on out.

He mumbles something tiredly into her temple, shifting over into his back with his arm still reached across her waist.

"Wake up. Billll."

The comforter is smooth against her skin as she sits up. Saturday morning greets the both of them with warmth and comfort. He's always been a heavy sleeper, and sleeps even more soundly with her beside him, and every Saturday and Sunday morning of their monthly weekends together, she ends up having to wake him so he doesn't sleep into the day. Now, his eyes flutter open to the sight of his girlfriend leaning over him. Last night. His mind flashes with soothing caresses, desperate kisses, and, well, all of the naughty things that make his cheeks warm with color.

It was a night that he feels all over him, stained on his skin, beaten into his soul. With every blink of his eyes he's taken back to a moment where they were one. Where he became her's. He smiles softly and reaches up, running his hand over her neck then trailing across her exposed shoulder. His fingers poke the sensitive spot where he left a love bite on her breast, the skin stained with a purple bruise.

"I did a good j-job," Bill whispers.

The candles on the bedside tables are long since burnt out after burning all night long, but the lamplight still shines on him since they both were too tired to care to turn them off. His eyes light up at the sight of her smiling back at him and he feels nothing but complete and total happiness with her here. She's gentle and sweet in his presence yet somehow at the same time fierce and strong. She's the girl he loves. The only one he could ever dream of loving.

They stay like this for a few more minutes, exchanging glances and brushes of their lips until she yanks him up from the bed to go make breakfast.

+

Music floods the Denbrough's kitchen as easily as the tepid morning breeze breaks in through the open inch of the window. Y/N sways back and forth to the rhythm of a song while grease pops and sizzles in the pan.

Bill's eyes follow every movement of her hips that swing in time with the record he found in his mom's collection earlier in the week in preparation for this weekend. Now that he thinks of it, he did a lot of preparing and researching for last night. Between reading the magazines and romance books to buying the condoms and candles, there was a lot that he prepared for. But one thing he didn't foresee is this, having to look at her like this; with a glowing smile as she dances around the room and makes breakfast without pulling her away and pushing her onto the kitchen table. Every time he meets her gaze or watches her like this his heart speeds up and he can't help but shudder in the memory of her hands raking through his hair or the indescribable feeling of her wrapped around him. He thought that his need would be satiated but it wasn't. If anything, it's made the fire burning inside of him grow hotter and wilder.

He neatly arranges the pancakes on the plate, forcing his eyes away from the girl for longer the usual ten-second record of this morning. It's only when he hears the sound of her stifled giggling that he turns his attention to her and finds that she's hiding something behind her back.

"What're you h-h-hiding?" Bill asks skeptically.

Y/N fights off her smile, trying to casually shrug without letting her hands move at all.

"Nothing, just um-"

She takes a step forward and the look she gives him sets him on edge. She's planning something...

The whipped cream hits his nose before he can blink again, followed by the sound of her contagious damn laughter that makes his heart flutter with a feeling he can't quite place. He gasps at the cold cream and wipes it down his face.

He exclaims, chasing her around the kitchen table, "Give it to me!"

The hallways pass by in blurs of beige and maroons and he's always just a step behind her while he reaches out to try to snatch the whipped cream out of her hands. Y/N lets out a cackling fit laughter, turning to go up the stairs.

Bill's unbuttoned shirt flows behind him and exposes his bare torso as he starts behind her. Sunlight from the windows at the start of the upper level shines down on the expanse of exposed skin, warming him even more. The stairs squeak under his weight, that shifts quicker now that she's vanished from his sight around the corner of the hallway, and when he turns the corner at the top of the steps, she's nowhere to be seen or heard. He's alone.

It's quiet save for the music downstairs, which can barely be heard now. His steps are careful and he notes which floorboards he steps on and makes sure to choose a less noisy route down the hallway. He braces himself for her to be behind any of the open doorways except for Georgie's old room.

The first door is safe. When he opens it up to reveal the empty cleaning closet where his mom keeps a stray mop and vacuum cleaner, with no Y/N standing there with a whipped cream can. He continues down the whole hallway until he gets to his room and is sure that she can't be anywhere but in there.

"Gotcha!" Bill exclaims with bubbling excitement moving through him, only to find a completely empty room.

His shoulders relax at the disappointment of not finding her. But if she isn't there then-

"You're gonna have to do better than that."

Her voice sounds off from far behind him, at the top of the stairs down the end of the hall, and it makes him jump in his place.

Y/N smiles and holds up the whipped cream can teasingly, "I've always been faster than you, Denbrough."

Their steps boom loudly as he rushes down the stairs after her, a few tufts of hair falling onto his forehead in the fast pursuit. They run all over the house; through the kitchen again, out into the yard, and through the living room. The music from the boombox in the kitchen grows louder and softer with every movement they make from room to room. It's reminiscent of moments they shared as much younger kids, before the fateful summer five years ago, when they where only half the height they are now and could play tag for hours through the woods or playground of Derry Elementary. Either way, his soul gravitates to her to her even more now. Now he's bound to her through the intimate days and nights of their relationship, and he doesn't mind. He doesn't mind it one bit.

The basement door swings open in front of him, just soon enough for his body to come to a halting stop at the sudden obstacle. He cuts around the door and chases her down the stairs.

"No!" She calls out in a playful shriek at his hands seizing her by her sides once they reach the cellar and, in defense, starts to shoot out whipped cream haphazardly in hopes that it'll hit him, yet most it just falls on the ground.

He manages to snatch away the whipped cream from her grip and now the tables are turned. It's her that reaches out the best she can, with his arms holding her captive, to try to take her weapon back.

"Nope, y-you lost," Bill says, "Sorry."

The cream is cold on her neck as he sprays it, her lips opening in a gape of shock. He draws a necklace with it around her neck and laughs the entire time. It's nearly dark in the basement with only the light from up the stairs to show each others' reactions when they take the can back and forth to draw on each other. Y/N is still being trapped by him, bucking wildly around in his arms, when she takes a shot at pulling him to the ground. His back hits the floor first and she falls on top of him with the can successfully back in her possession.

Their breaths mingle in the space between them, the sound of their breathing loud and panting after all of the running around the house they just did. He kisses her abruptly. The sweet taste of the whipped crease coats their lips in the midst of this and instead of whipping it away they just kiss it off. They kiss vehemently on the floor of the Denbrough's basement, their mouths and lips hot as they collide in a fight for what? Dominance? Neither of them knows, but she does have him wrapped around her finger right now. The mere feeling of her hands holding his face is enough to drive him wild let alone her body on top of his or her soft lips unwinding him with every kiss and brush they make.

His lips follow her's as they pull away and the loss of contact makes his skin itch with anticipation, only to find her concentrated on something else. A small dollop of whipped cream rests on his Adam's apple. Her tongue makes contact with his skin and he shivers at this, the cold air whenever she pulls back then moves back in sending shivers along his body. Her lips kiss the canvas of his neck until they've reached the sweet spot that always manages to weaken him in the knees whenever they're making out like this. Until last night, they hadn't gone very far. Other than the few times either of them got to second base, there wasn't a lot of sensual touching or anything this gratifying before. It's all new to them. And still, there's a strange kind of guidance they both feel pushing them in the right direction with anything they try with one another.

The pleasure doesn't fade when she moves back from the sensitive patch of skin just under the curve where his jaw bridges with his neck. In fact, it only increases at the sight of her lips, kiss-swollen and utterly beautiful to him. He reaches up from where his hand lay at his side, cupping her face in the palm of his hand.

"I love you," She whispers and kisses the tip of his thumb when it brushes over her closed lips, "So," She moves to the next finger, "So," The next, "Much."

Bill looks up at her through his lashes, with so much love in his heart for the girl, and watches as she keeps pressing kisses to his fingertips. It makes his heart ache with longing to see such an innocent form of affection. And to know that she means it with her head, heart, and soul. It's overpowering. His free hand brushes back strands of her hair while his eyes follow every movement of her lips. Then, her eyes brighten slightly, as if an idea had just come to mind and taken over every bit of her thoughts. She wants him to feel what she felt last night. She wants to show him the world of pleasure and love he'd given her.

Y/N whispers, "Bill?"

"Mm?"

His hand drops from her grasp and falls back down to his side. The room is still as he watches her.

"Can I give you a-" She stumbles over her words, blushing, "Can I blow you?"

He stops, his breathing, his blinking, the heart beating in his chest; everything stops at the offer.

Never would he have expected to hear those words come out of her mouth. Suddenly, the way her body is curving into his is overwhelming and wonderful all at once. The thought of what she's proposing is enough to make his jeans start to feel a size too small. It feels like so much so fast since last night was the first  _anything_  they've done together. The orgasm he had last night was different. It wasn't like anything he'd experienced by himself, it was the perfect kind of disintegration, an earth-shattering kind of pleasure he didn't know he could experience. So now the idea of her mouth on him, the idea of feeling like he did last night again, makes him nod frantically.

But first, he whispers into the surrounding darkness, "I  _r-really_  want this but, are you sure you w-w-want to...you know..."

And in answer, she presses a chaste kiss to his lips, then slowly begins to make her way down to his neck. The descent down is painstakingly slow to start off with and he shudders at every brush of her lips to his skin. But then the ice cold feeling of the whipped cream replaces her lips, spreading up the center of his abdomen in a line until it stops at the bottom of his ribcage.

Bill is in awe of his lover. Her confidence with him is so different from last night, where they both had been timid and flushed with embarrassment surrounding what they were to do. Now she's leading and though the prospect of what she's about to do makes him blush, he will gladly sit back and let her do her worst.

Y/N has to keep her hands from trembling as they flatten onto his sides, holding him with a kind of benevolence only lovers have. He did most of the heavy lifting yesterday and a moment ago, under the fading light from the open door at the top of the steps, she saw him,  _really_  saw him, and wanted nothing more than to show him the love in her heart with every action that could somehow let it be known. It's a dance, where she has to let her heart lead her on through it. Where she has to feel the rhythm of the person in front of her's heart and dance to it as well as she could her own because at that moment, she's not herself and he's not himself. They're one.

She's nearly surprised at how soft his skin is under her lips when she leans down at the base of his torso, her chin hitting the cold button of his jeans, and kisses just above the hem of his pants. The kisses are quick pecks that push up a few inches of skin until she comes in contact with the whipped cream. If she were to be entirely truthful, she would admit that what she wants to do makes her nervous. And not so much to where she doesn't want to do it or that she's anxiety-ridden, just enough that the nerves rake through her. The good kind. The kind that tells you you're doing something right. The whipped cream is sweet on her tastebuds when she presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his stomach. His abdomen flexes beautifully in response.

He's matured much since they first began dating. He's filled out a little more now, though he still retains his tall, lithe stature, with a more defined range of muscles from running Cross Country and Track for all of High School. So the lightly toned muscle of his barely-there abs is tensed beneath her kisses. His body is somehow tight and loose and still all at once with every soft caress of her mouth against his stomach.

Y/N licks the whipped cream off of him in one long strip, moving her tongue along the warm skin until there's nothing left but the glistening of saliva on his stomach. This makes Bill bite down on his lip and nearly tempts him to prop himself up on his elbows to be able to watch her kiss, bite, and lick whipped cream off of his body. He'd expect something this kinky from Richie based from his conversations but not from his sweetheart. It's more of disbelief that it is surprising though because he enjoys every second she takes on him and never wants it to stop. His skin heats up against the cold of the small puffs of cream she uses to decorate him, melting it around the edges with his heat. She worships his body with her kisses and caresses.

Y/N kisses around a dot of whipped cream, her plump lips brushing to his skin with every kiss. The heat of her tongue melts the cream as she moves across his stomach, making sure to pay mind to every inch of his awaiting skin and not neglect any of him. Every time she licks and kisses his skin, he relaxes and tenses, he has to keep himself from shivering at the contact and how cold he feels when she leaves him.

"Y/N," Bill moans her name and his hand finds her hair to brush through it while she trails back down to the waistband of his jeans.

First, she presses a kiss to the apex of his thighs over the fabric of the jeans, feeling the hardness beneath straining back at her touch. They both are hot with their movements and their skin is flushed despite the cold cement floor they're laying on. It's all because of what they're doing, what she's about to do to him. It's filthy and even thinking about it makes his face flushed but he wants it so badly. He wants  _her_  so badly. He wants her to stop moving down his body so achingly slow and simply rip off his clothes.

His zipper opens with a swift movement of her fingers, followed by the button popping a mere second later. The tips of her fingers hit the tops of his thighs, her hands wrapping around the waistband of the jeans and underwear at once. It's a silence-filled few seconds while she yanks the clothing down his legs, the sounds of his his belt buckle and jeans hitting the floor beside her ringing through the room.

Bill begs-much to her disbelief, literally  _begs_ -her, "Please."

It's a breathy, commanding whisper, one that makes her stomach twist with satisfaction and her heart flutter in admiration of how he looks while saying it. His eyes are shut tight, his eyebrows furrowed with the anticipation, while his pouty lips are pursed. The shadow and darkness of the basement curls over his moon-light skin and she wants nothing more than to run her hands from his face all the way down the smooth expanse of his chest until she gets to where he wants her so badly.

So she obliges him.

His body jerks in reaction to the wet heat of her mouth meeting him so suddenly. The pleasure he'd felt from her kissing him a moment ago doubles now that her lips are so deliciously wrapped around him. Her free hand flattens against his stomach as she takes him into her mouth, using her other hand to hold what she can't reach to.

Bill's body is on fire with an all-consuming kind of pleasure that he can only describe as  _perfect_. He hisses at the feeling her tongue moving up the underside of him, leaving him sensitive and trembling and nearly undone simply at that. But he lets his jaw slack and his lips part at her ministrations. This was one of those things he read in the book that he couldn't get through with an entirely straight face and, to say the least, the moment he finished the scene he had to run upstairs and relieve the friction it caused in his jeans. Now, as it's being done to him, the sheepishness has vanished entirely. He doesn't care. He doesn't care because he can feel that delightful fire spreading in the pit of his abdomen and he isn't thinking about embarrassment or modesty or anything other than how he feels as she's sucking him off.

His hand slaps down on the concrete floor, his fingertips white with pressure as he tries to find something, anything to hold on to as the bliss builds and builds to a point where he isn't sure how he hasn't finished yet. The actions are sloppy and amateur but, then again, until about nine hours ago, neither of them had had any experience outside of their make-out sessions and dry humping.

There was a long stretch of time-about two months-where neither of them talked about it, yet they couldn't get enough of each other as a result of this sudden rush of lust. She would pull him into a secluded spot when they went to the Quarry and kiss him until neither of them could stand another second without a proper breath. One time after they graduated he had to drag her off when he felt that instant pull towards her, push her up against the wall of the Hanlon's hall closet, then suck and bite at the skin on her neck and cleavage until she was a masterpiece of purples and dark blues. The next day, at their breakfast date at the diner, when a waitress gave her a freaky look for the marks on her neck was when they had the conversation about sex for the first time.

The overwhelming rush of euphoria is so close that he's nearly reaching to feel it, wanting the recently familiar feeling to overtake him so intensely that he won't be able to erase it from his mind if he tries. His mouth is fixed open; needy moans and whines flying out by the second and his head tilts back against the floor in frustration of how overwhelming the pleasure is at this point. His hair messy from all of the writhing.

She feels this tension in him and can feel his stomach shuddering every few seconds under her palm as if he's another perfect caress of her lips from finishing. The sound he lets out at his release makes her have to press her thighs together to relieve the ache that comes alive within her.

Bill can't help but tense as his orgasm washes over him, sending him such a strong rush of ecstasy that everything else fades away. It renders him helpless and shocked, and his jaw still so beautifully slacked in his permanent gape from the blow-job. The sounds of his heavy breaths fill the surrounding air.

Y/N is careful as she pulls her mouth from him, trying not to let any of the come drip back on to him as she swallows back the mouthful of it and ignores the urge to spit it out on the floor beside them.

That was a huge leap of faith for her. She's only ever had sex with one guy, last night, and it wasn't her that was the experimental one of the couple. When she offered this to him she wasn't even sure if she could do it right, let alone wonder if he'd finish or what she'd do when he came inside of her  _mouth_. But it ended well and based off of those splendid noises he kept making, he enjoyed it. She feels strangely close to him now, similarly to last night right after he'd finished going down on her and lost any ounce of hesitation in the bedroom he'd had before. Now that she's returned the favor, she feels the same way.

He starts to soften in the hand that's still gripping him and she exhales sharply, moving that hand back up his chest until it's cupping his cheek.

It was the most intense feeling he's ever felt. It was even more intense than last night, which he wasn't sure he would ever be able to top, and now he lays back to let himself recover from such an orgasm. She watches his chest rise rapidly and fall back down with every desperate intake of air. She sits back and lets him calm down before making any move to kiss him or shower him with affection.

Bill is surprised that when he opens his eyes, he has to blink back the tears that were forming in them from the stimulation and the first thing he sees is the empty grey ceiling, followed by his loving girlfriend hovering over him.

He doesn't waste a fraction of a second before kissing her. He kisses her fervently, he kisses her with all of the emotion that has built up through the past day and morning. The love in his heart has no bounds and now, with this explosion of affection happening between them, he knows that every piece of his heart belongs to her and there is nothing anyone can do to change that.

They pull back slowly.

"Y-Y-You're a fucking angel," Bill says.

Y/N's smile is stunning as she looks down into his eyes and drinks up every look of total affection he throws her. Her fingers fiddle with the twisted collar of his flannel while his brush the side of her jaw, slowly easing her into the same state of peace he's in.

"You're the best though," She whispers, "I can't even say how much I love you, Bill."

His face flushes at this and his smile softens.

"I love you too. A-A-And that was just-" His chest deflates with a sign of disbelief, "amazing."

They stay close together when she searches aimlessly through the darker side of the basement for his pants and underwear, tossing them back to his lap with a smug smile. His hands are still working on his zipper when her voice and the wafting smell of burnt food interrupts the silence.

"I think the bacon is burning..."

And he has to leave his button and belt undone to follow her swift run up the stairs.


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill has a nightmare.

The rest of Saturday is spent watching movies and cracking stupid jokes throughout them all. They cuddled on his bed soon after and listened to music, whispering to each other until the sun began to set. Y/N and Bill both sleep fitfully beside each other with the darkness of the night seeping in through the open windows of his bedroom. Something, for some reason, keeps the both of them from resting truly well and they always wake up every few hours while the other is barely out and can't seem to keep their eyes closed for longer than ninety minutes at a time.

But later into the night, as they're both resting uneasily, Bill dreams of It.

Images of what they'd crawled through down in the Sewers comes to his mind and he can see every part of their monster so vividly that in this dream, he believes it's real. In this dream, the last two days haven't happened and life is only limited to the days It forces him to spend watching his friends slowly die one by one. This time, it's Y/N's death. It circles her limp body as her blood pools onto the dirty cistern's floor and watches his face contort with sorrow at the sight of his girlfriend nearly gone like that. But something tells him it's all off-kilter. In this dream, he sees the her he knows now, the eighteen-year-old lovely girl he adores so much, not the thirteen-year-old that he should be seeing should this dream truly be reality. It isn't real, he tries to tell himself, while Pennywise takes her body into it's arms. None of it is real.

The sound of a low whine brings her from her sleep. Everything is dark surrounding them and it all feels foggy from the haze of sleep that's settled over her, but she rises anyway and glances around the room in search of the noise. Music from earlier still fades into her ears along with the noises that grow louder with every second, lulling with the call of sleep that exhaustion begs of her.

Yet Bill is still trapped under the veil of the nightmare and can't seem to shake himself out of it. He falls to his knees in the cistern, he screams his voice raw as It begins to tear flesh from bone and eat her. The boy trembles in his dream with his loud sobs. He wants to turn away but some force holds him in place, stuck to watch this continue.

The bed sheets shuffle with movement beside her and bring her surroundings into a sharper focus. Those whines are more troubled now that she listens harder to them, they're terrible and pained. They're worse than anything she's ever heard because she realizes; those cries of suffering are coming from the person lying beside her. Of all the times she's slept over she's had to deal with his frequent nightmares more times than she can count. Usually, it starts the same way, with the sound of heavy heaving and feet patterning on the hardwood floor. She'll find him pacing across his room as he cries and cries, trying to rid the memory of whatever horror he'd encountered in his sleep. Then, the moment he spots her sat up straight on the bed, he'll rush into her arms. But tonight is different. Tonight she has to see him toss and turn in his bed, unable to keep himself from crying loudly, and she has to figure out how to wake him.

Y/N turns over to sit on her knees and faces him fully. It's hard with the lack of light, the candles had burnt out yesterday morning, so she flips the switch on the lamp. His skin is pallid, covered with a thin layer of sweat, and the expression on his face breaks her heart. His brows furrow in what seems to be physical pain. He looks like he's being tortured, despite being safely tucked away in bed.

There's no chance anything could truly get to him while he sleeps anyways, but after It, it was always a concern. It took a few years for him to stop sleeping with a baseball bat and even longer to get him to stop putting his mother's Christmas bells around the handle of his bedroom door. The encounters they had with the evil entity have changed him indefinitely. Before It, he was such a heavy sleeper that he always slept in five minutes past his alarm clock. Some days Georgie even came in and jumped on his bed till he woke up. There wasn't anything troubling him while he was out, there wasn't any all-consuming fear lurking in the shadows of his mind where all of the worst memories live. There wasn't the trauma of what happened that summer. And now, he wakes up to the sound of his mom opening the door to the bathroom down the hall to get ready in the morning. It's a little different when he's sleeping beside Y/N. With her, he feels as safe as he ever could. With her, she can turn over and adjust without waking yet if he ever feels the absence of her warmth, he jerks up from sleep as soon as his body notices she isn't there. Sharing a bed and cuddling with her had become so common a few months ago, that sleeping by himself felt strange and he had to adjust back to being alone. That's what it'll be like after he has to live in this lonely house with his parents again after this weekend, he supposes, the nights will be cold and scary until he eases back into being able to sleep without her.

So now, as her body warmth fades away and the comfort of having her beside him has faded, the nightmare worsens.

He moves his face into the pillow, his fist whitening with the effort of how hard he grips the sheets and lets out the first real sob. And this is enough for Y/N to break inside.

She moves forward slowly, careful not to spook him when he does wake, to begin to shake him.

"Bill!"

Her hands grip each shoulder and she shakes him, frantic to get him out of whatever is troubling him. Which is, no doubt to her, the memories he tries so hard to push down in the back of his mind to forget. He stirs in his sleep with the calling of his name beckoning him up from the rabbit hole of the darkest parts of his mind and the cistern begins to disintegrate within the dream. First, the puddles of greywater disappear, then the walls slowly fall down around him until all that surrounds is an expanse of black nothingness and the horrors still occurring to his left. The sound of her screams cracks his heart open. She's hurt, the words thump through him with every beat of his heart, she's dying and there is nothing he can do about it.

Everything is still fading yet that image of Pennywise ripping her open, sinking its teeth into her, burns in its spot in his memory. Seeing it the first time was terrible enough. When It slashed open her abdomen to leave that scar she hates so much, he was forced to watch as she wailed out for her friends and screamed her throat raw from the pain. He had to see her face contort with the kind of suffering you only read about in horror books, he let her squeeze his hand until his bones nearly crushed. He had to sit and watch, just as he has to now.

The sigh of relief doesn't hit her until his eyes fly open and he's back to reality. At first, it's shock and terror that compose the boy, but after he realizes where he is, he falls apart. The sobs rake through him hard and the world tilts on its axis when he sits up. It wasn't real this time, but when will it be? What happens when it comes back? They promised each other they'd all kill it when it rose back from its rest and what happens if it gets her then? It wasn't real tonight but it was five years ago, that grotesque hip to hip scar is enough proof of that.

Y/N stays where she is. If she moves in on him too quickly, he'll push her away. Not out of any personal reason other than the fact if anyone, not just her, tried to smother him right now he'd scream. His chest rises and falls with frantic breaths and his face is soaked with the sweat-tear mixture that had settled there in his sleep. The world is suffocating him. Suddenly, even though she's right there, he feels like she's ripped away forever. He feels that It really did kill her, that this weekend has been a stupid fantasy and the dream was him truly waking up. Bill realizes it's all so temporary. Everything they've done together for the past two days, everything they've said, doesn't matter if one of them is dead. He realizes for the first time since they've started dating, this relationship is on borrowed time.

It's only a matter of time until one of them dies. It's only a matter of time before she finds someone better because he can feel it deep down, he can see the truth in the matter; he's never been worthy of love. It's almost like every force of the universe has been trying to tell him this. The death of his little brother, the stinging absence of his fire-haired friend, and the bitter taste left in his mouth by his parents' neglect, it was screaming the answer in his face.

"Bill," Her voice is calm, so stark of a comparison to the earthquakes shaking his mind and the tsunamis roiling in the pit of his stomach.

He doesn't listen though. Thoughts rapidly pinball through his mind. Leave her, it's the only way she'll be safe. And then his heart clenches at memories of the sweet girl, of their first glance, first I love you, first kiss, first everything. Is it worth leaving? He surely can't sort it through now. All he knows is that he breaks things. Just like he broke Georgie, just like he drove Beverly out, just like he made his parents never want to be home. In his mind, it's all his fault. It isn't a rational solution but then again, he isn't in a state of mind where he can be rational. His first reaction to these dreams takes him hours to usually come down from on his own. The first reaction is to push everyone he loves away.

This time she says it confidently and the tone demands his attention, "Bill."

He's always loved her for this, her ability to read and understand him in a way nobody else can. It's almost as if she can read his mind and tell what's racing through it. She knows what he needs; her guiding, loving hands to grip him by his shoulders and pull him out of his suffering. She's the perfect counter to his impulsive thoughts.

He snaps his eyes up to meet her's and she can see them soften slightly. The tears well up in his eyes harder at the sight of her because he knows that under her layers rests the scar that inspires these hellish nightmares. The sobs begin to come out faster because of what he'd just seen. Moonlight from the windows hits their silhouettes and it illuminates him, along with the lamp, so she can see the ocean of tears that he's shed for her. Bill's body, his entire being, is on fire with emotion. It has ravaged him raw, demolished any sense of comfort and safety he finds in this world and replaced it with a fear so strong that even now that he's left the nightmare, he trembles and cries.

"Bill," She says again for the third time, "You have to breathe."

The mattress squeaks with her movement as she crawls closer to him and breaches the distance between them that's been painful to have to maintain. He flinches-flinches-at her touch grazing the back of his hand but doesn't shy away once he meets her gaze again. It's almost like he has to see her eyes to remind himself that it's her and that she would never hurt him. So her hand molds overtop if his, opening the floodgates to tears he didn't even realize were being held back. 

Bill cries there for a few minutes before he can even think straight. The dream had felt so similar to when they were merely thirteen-year-olds lost in the labyrinth of the sewers, the Y/N he'd watched get devoured even looked a few years younger again. The only touch he lets reach him now is her hand on his and though he wants to move closer, he wants to calm himself down more and at least be able to breathe normally before he lets her hold him.

When his hyperventilating starts to pick up even more, Y/N whispers, "Hey! Hey, it's okay, just breath with me okay?"

His topaz eyes shine with the glistening wetness of his tears and he intently watches her chest moving up and down to try to match his to that. It takes a monumental amount of effort to not choke on every slowly slowing breath, falling back into jerking breaths or sobs again. But instead, he focuses on the soft skin holding his hand and the way her chest moves with her relaxed breath. They've been through this before. In late nights of these weekends, it's sometimes inevitable to witness each other having these nightmares. More often than not, he's had to talk her down from hysterics in the middle of the night and coax her back from her own demons. Tonight though, she's on duty for being the protector, the caretaker of the couple. They've never been traditional nor have their roles in the relationship been set in stone. Meaning, he isn't afraid to cry in front of her. He isn't afraid of letting her hold him and she isn't afraid of being the one doing the holding. And they wouldn't have it any other way.

Bill throws himself at her, burying his face in her neck while his arms lock around her frame. She accepts him instantly and a sigh of relief floods from her parted lips at the contact. For the both of them, meeting in this embrace is cleansing for their souls and to be able to hold onto each other through such difficult times only makes them love one another more than they already do. He cries, leaving spots of tears on her skin, and balls the back of her hoodie into his fists.

"Just remember to breathe okay? Let it out but, just remember to breathe," Y/N whispers into his hair.

His breathing has slowed significantly yet his heartbeat is still wildly swift. That was one of the worst nightmares he's had since the first year following that summer. The first year was by far the worst and every year has gotten a little bit better going along, but the demons he's had to conquer every time he closed his eyes have barely done so. After a while of crying into the curve of her neck, Bill finds the strength to speak up.

"It w-w-was about you this time."

Sweat soaked strands of her push back with ease under her touch and the air feels cool on his forehead without the hair covering it. She doesn't say a word, doesn't dare compromise his courage in telling her about what's terrifying him so badly. All she does is stroke a hand through his hair and place heartbreakingly gentle kisses into his temple.

Bill says, his voice soft and gritty from all of the sobbing, "Maybe seeing your scar for the first time in a w-while put the idea in my head b-but I saw it happen again and it was so horrible, Y-Y/N."

Her fingertips rub on his scalp in languid circles, something she knows as a quick way to put him at ease, massaging until she can physically feel his body slacken further against her's. When he's the one needing consoling, she knows exactly what to do. Just like her ability to read him well, she can calm him down so easily that one moment he can be at a ten and within moments she can get him back down to a three. When they were thirteen and he had just punched Richie in the face outside of the house on Neibolt street, he was fuming with leftover emotion. Most of it was anger yet some was sorrow, at the thought of Georgie being dead as his friend had claimed and at seeing his friends all turn tail and bike away. Except for Beverly. But an hour later Y/N made her way to Bill's house to find him sitting alone on the porch and pulled him into her arms. She apologized for leaving him when he needed her most. She held him as he wept over his late little brother until the sun fell under the horizon and all that was left to light up their faces was the full moon above.

Tonight, the moon is full, and it's visible from their spot on his bed. They always sleep with the curtains open when they're together, but never apart. He never feels safe enough by himself to do it. And even now that he's in her arms, the safest place he could be, the vulnerability of having the inside visible to any sidewalk passerby worries him. But then he locks his eyes on the moon and stars and lets their beauty sway him into peace.

"I s-saw It. It was just the two of us, when w-we were little, backinthesewersandhehadyou," He trips over every other word as he breezed through sentences nearly too fast for her to hear,"And I-I-I couldn't do anything."

She catches his breathing beginning to pick up its speed again upon rambling about the nightmare so she kisses his temple again and again and rocks him in her arms until the feeling of his chest hitting her's isn't so rapid. They're so synced with one another, so connected that he intercepts the message; that he's safe, that he can slow down and take his time because she's not going anywhere.

Bill blows out a hard sigh and goes on slower this time, "It was killing you, e-e-eating you. It's like I was f-frozen and I wanted to turn away so I didn't have to watch. But I couldn't and I couldn't s-save you."

She opens her mouth to speak and is stopped.

"What if I can't save you when it comes back? W-What if it kills you because I'm not f-fast enough or I'm just not good enough to save you?"

The feeling of stinging begins at the back of her eyes and moves forward to the surface of them, letting tears well up at her lashes from his words. His hands still ball up the fabric of her hoodie into them to at least have something to hold onto, to keep her with him no matter what. To reassure himself that she's actually here. Even with all of the solace she's giving him by kissing his forehead and embracing him, he doubts it's real. It was able to tweak reality before so what if it's doing it again? What if the girl he's holding isn't really Y/N? What if she's already gone? And that thought alone sends the sobs back into full force.

Y/N's chest tightens at the sudden return of his crying and she squeezes him tighter. His bottom lip trembles with every sound coming out, his lips wet with salvia that's nearly choking him at this point. Every cell in his body screams for him to run, to get away from this facade, from the fake version of his girlfriend that holds him. But then again, her kisses feel real. Her body against his feels the same and her touch is just as loving as before. Nothing fake could hold the authenticity his lover has. No writer could describe her, no artist could create her out of nothing into the perfection that sits before him. She's real, he thinks, she has to be.

And as if she could read his thoughts, she responds, "Hey, it's alright. I'm here. I'm right here, Bill."

He moves his head from her neck and roams his eyes over every inch of her face, searching in it for a confirmation of his fears but he doesn't find one. It's her, his heart whispers, it's home.

"I'm not gone, and if It ever comes back we'll do what we always have. We'll have each others' backs and this time-this time we'll kill it for good," Y/N says, "But It isn't back. And you don't have to worry, cause I've got you," He grips her tighter and she rocks him in her arms, "I've got you."

All is quiet aside from his now soft weeping and the gentle strumming of an acoustic through the boombox in the corner. Not even the typical sounds of the heater kicking on or the dryer tumbling down the hall interrupts the scene. He quietly thinks over the last thirty minutes in his head, he stews over all of the extra thoughts that have flying around and realizes how useless they are. Maybe he doesn't have to run from her. Maybe love doesn't have to be scary. Maybe, just maybe, pulling her closer is the answer. He lets those negative thoughts pass by like clouds in the sky, acknowledging them, but never letting them stay longer than a few moments in the back of his mind. Tears still roll down his cheeks when he pulls back from her, scooting up till his back rests against the headboard of his bed and looks her over with those painfully sad looking eyes.

"Come h-here," Bill mutters.

At first, she hesitates, raising an eyebrow in curiosity of why he wants her to. But when he outstretched his arm, literally beckoning her near, she crawls up the bed until she's on him and her legs are rested on either side of him. Bill's hands start at her hips, his thumbs putting pressure on the bones on each side, and begin to move up her body. He memorized his lover with his palms, gliding, and brushing and moving over every bit of her and even though she's clothed, even though he doesn't have the delight of feeling the warmth of her skin on his, he feels closer to him than he ever has. It's crazy to him that with every day of their seemingly never-ending weekend, he only grows to be closer with her. His hands lastly end up on each side of her neck, cradling her jaw with his fingers, and he moves forward to brush his nose against her's. The skin meets softly and all it takes is this gentle touch for a shaking breath to come loose from both of their lips.

"Make love to me," He whispers without stuttering at all.

The words, his breath spreading down her skin like a cloud of smoke surrounding a fire, makes her shiver from overtop of him. Y/N's parents split when she was only a young girl. Bill hadn't known her at the time but she'd grown up with that as her only example of love as an adolescent. So from the beginning, her image of what love is supposed to be was warped and jerked in the wrong direction. Until she grew to love her friends. Until she learned to love Bill. Loving him didn't just happen. It wasn't handed to her as easily as it is to others. Learning to love was hard and it took them years to get to. It took her fighting against every instinct to push him away every day to get over. She grew up with no intention, with a promise to never love any person, because love ruined her young life. Until Bill. Until he came into her life and didn't turn it upside down, but turned it right-side up. He listened to her and did the only thing no one else was willing to do; understand. It was scary and a little jarring at first to adjust to this affection and care coming from someone, even though she'd known him for years before dating him, but luckily for her he loved her with every piece of himself and wasn't going to let her give up because of something she was raised to believe. Because of the bullshit that is the idea that love is useless, that distancing yourself keeps you safe. He taught her that the risk you take is what makes it worth it and that you have to jump off that cliff to enjoy the water below.

So she jumps with him now. She looks into eyes that are a shade so blue they could make the waves of the ocean bend to their will, to their beauty, and she nods.

Bill kisses her softly, tired from just having woken up and all of the crying, and his chest aches with need. Need for her, to stretch his touch over every inch of her skin and take all of her, to understand her body better than her own. He wants to keep her here forever and make love to her until he can barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion. He wants her to know how far his love goes. Their lips meld together beautifully with every half-awake kiss they give and it doesn't take long for her to open her mouth to him and let him run his tongue along the inside of her mouth. He kisses her deeply, as if doing so will keep confirming that she's real and isn't going anywhere. He runs his hands up and down her back until he's so accustomed to the touch that he knows how every curve of her spine feels.

But she doesn't let his worship of her continue much longer before she pulls back from his lips and latches her's onto his neck.

Bill laughs softly through his crying and whispers into her hair, "W-What is with your obsession with my neck? The one you left on F-Friday hasn't even faded yet."

Hickeys, unfortunately for Bill, who has to cover them up with scarves and his mother's too-orange concealer, have been common from the start of their make-out days when they were sixteen. Now that it's the Summer of '93, with the both of them just having turned eighteen, they've graduated to bigger and better things. Yet still, her obsession with his neck has stayed.

Her kisses halt just before she reaches that sweet spot that always drives him nuts.

"You want me to stop?"

She can feel the vibration of his laugh against her lips and with that, keeps going. A low-pitched whine comes out from the back of his throat at her ministrations and his body is set on fire the moment she begins to suck on the skin. He doesn't even realize his hips had jerked up to move against her center until he hears her breath catch in her throat and feels her tense against him. The contact makes her body tingle with the first few inklings of what is soon to be a pleasure so intense it'll be all she'll feel. At least she hopes it will be.

Bill whispers her name under his breath as she grounds herself against him and kisses over the sore spots she left on his neck, running her tongue over them to provide at least some relief while she moves back to his lips.

She can feel the sensation beginning to swirl in the pit of her abdomen at what they're doing; his lips brushing hers ever so slightly in a kiss so gentle and loving it makes her heart swell and her hips rocking back and forth on him. And from this, an image floods into her thoughts involuntarily. It's quick flashes of bare stomach trembling against one another with what looks to be pleasure, of her hands spreading down his chest, of his flushed skin under her hold.

Y/N takes her time in pulling the shirt over his head and watches him shut his eyes at her knuckles hitting his abdomen. This weekend has been strange for the both of them. Never have they had this much of a need for affection. At least tonight is a night where they feel free to take their time and it isn't one of those horrid nights when he'd sneak her up and have to be quiet while his parents were down the hall. Before they had sex on Friday, the only dirty thing they'd done was get to third base. It was one of the nights he snuck her into his room to listen to music and make out when things got a little too intense for them to handle. She figured this out when she felt something hard on her thigh and she decided to help him get off rather than have him awkwardly ask her to leave so he could take care of it.

His shirt hits the floor beside them with a thud and that's all he can see before she's leaning back to connect lips with him again. Bill dodges and, with a glowing look in his eyes, presses tender kisses to the depression of her collarbone. He presses his lips to her skin over and over, exploring her until he's reassured for good that she's real. The air, warmed by the heater, feels cold in comparison to the heat he brings to her cheeks as he continues to appreciate every inch of her. He doesn't hesitate and he doesn't care about his tears anymore. They still flow easily down his face, a few whines here or there, but he still keeps on.

Her hoodie is gone, leaving her in her thin little sleeping tank top that he can nearly squint to see through, before she can blink again. He's deft with his movements, having picked up on what to do and how to do it so much faster than either of them thought he would. Quick learner. Their movements are a little sloppy sometimes but overall, it's skilled. The fabric of the tank top is loose over her breasts and he feels himself harden at the sight of them. A part of him, at the same time as he's losing himself in her body's seemingly unending beauty, rejoices in the fact that he doesn't have to brave the task of unclasping her bra without the usual fumbling awkwardness.

Bill reaches down for her underwear without a twinge of hesitation and he cups her with the palm of his hand. It's not an intentional touch to drive her wild or anything like that, it's simply to feel her out and see how ready she is. Nevertheless, it makes her whine softly and lean into the touch. The wetness he feels through the soft fabric slicks his fingertips as he pulls his hand back.

The sounds of their kisses intermix with the music and the bed's creaking from their slow grinding. She gasps against his lips when he gives one particularly needy thrust which alone sends her toes curling with gratification. It's the feeling of him straining against the confinement of his clothes, having to feel what she needs most hardening under her more and more with every roll of their hips. It's that that renders her weak.

"S-S-Stop," He says into her mouth, "If we don't stop I'm gonna c-c-c-" He stops from the stuttering and halts the movement he made before despite how empty he feels her body writhing against his. He was dangerously close to coming in his underwear.

Y/N herself can feel her body pulsing with the same aching longing for release too though and swallows back the lump in her though, pulling her face back from his. Her mind is dazed from this and all she wants to do is pull off their last layers of clothing but he stops her when she reaches for the waistband of his briefs.

In response to the questioning look on her face, Bill says, "I have something to t-t-try first."

And with that, he nudges her onto her back. He's gentle when he sweeps his hand across the plane of her chest, just above her breasts where the skin is stretched flat. The cotton of her tank caresses up her torso, his hands pushing it up to give him more of her to appreciate. To give him all of her. These fleeting brushes of his fingers curving over her and his palms just barely grazing the sensitive skin on the slopes of her breasts are enough to make jaw clench in anticipation. The idea of Bill touching her alone, whether it be on her cheek or chest, is enough to make her have to press her thighs together to relieve the throbbing there. So adding something they haven't done yet to the mix strikes her interest and though it makes her a little nervous, she trusts him. And she knows that he wouldn't do anything if he was even in the slightest bit concerned that she wouldn't like it or not want him to do it.

His focus hones on her peaked nipple and his hand massages her softly, giving her just enough to get sucked into his movements, to get her completely hooked before letting go. Before he skims his hand down her navel in pursuit of what he knows will make up for not pleasing her a second ago. This is still relatively new to them, though Friday and Saturday gave them plenty for practice, and they're still learning each others' bodies. He makes a mental note for later to pay more attention to her chest next time since her reaction to his touches were nothing short of gorgeous. And though he denies it, she's learned he has a thing for getting love bites; specifically just underneath his jaw. She found out yesterday how helpless he gets when her teeth nip at his skin at his sweet spot. It almost always makes him melt in her arms.

The last few days have opened new doors that didn't seem possible before. Not only physically, but spiritually as well. With him, she never has to feel insecure or alone. In this room, life is in color while the rest of her world is shades of grey she can never seem to escape from. With him, she's home.

Her panties are abandoned on the floor as well and the offending fabric is tossed across the room, making the papers that were piled beside his desk chair untidy as it lands. But it seems that that doesn't matter, that nothing before ever mattered, and nothing ever will matter again when he eases his fingers into her.

"Bill," She breathes out.

Crescent-shaped nail marks decorate his shoulders where her hands tightly grip him and the pain, somehow enjoyable, almost makes him lose focus.

Their lips connect and she doesn't know what to focus on. His kisses are the more experienced of the two ways he pleases his lover, they're experienced from years of practice and he knows by know what'll dazzle and dizzy her. And though she doesn't pick up on it, he can tell that he's not nearly as skilled at what he's doing further below but, then again, practice makes perfect.

Her body responds to him with every twitch of his fingers and movement of his muscles and at this very moment, he realizes how exposed she is for him. She's perfectly weak, vulnerable, she's trusting. She lets herself fall and be picked back up again, she lets him take her to places she's only ventured to in her most indecent fantasies. Her tightness to his fingers, the resistance that has begun to ease, only reminds him of what's to come and he lets the image that crossed his mind overtake him entirely. He angles his wrist lower to the mattress and his head sinks down to be level with her chest while he begins to edge her on. The pace increases and dissipates. He curls his fingers inside of her though and hits a place that makes her breathing visibly halt for a second.

A jumbled mix of syllables seem to try to pour out of her all at once and she ends up just muttering under her breath with what was supposed to be his name on the tip of her tongue. And when he begins to lick, nip, and kiss at her flushed breasts, it's game over. His fingers curl with every steady pump, his mouth and other hand knead her breast thoroughly, kissing softly and squeezing in time with his hand below. The two separate pleasures meld into one seamlessly and leave soft moans to fall from her mouth; composing a symphony from the most delightful of all sounds to him. He listens, even groans into her chest at it, and pushes deeper into her with this final thrust.

Her vision fades out when her orgasm reaches her and the wave finally crests. It's an unmatchable kind of peak for her, being with Bill, he's managed to leave her speechless this whole weekend. Whether it would be from the first night when he was so good at what he was doing for someone so new to it or when he'd realized she didn't finish and didn't let her go to sleep unsatisfied. No, he sunk under the covers and worked her with that glorious mouth of his until she came undone. And just like that night, right now she's holding his free hand. Their fingers interlock tightly through the last few shockwaves of her climax, his thumb lovingly stroking the back of her hand the whole time.

It takes a while for her to ride out her high and he gladly takes the time. The music, that the both of them had become deaf to in the midst of the heated moments, fades back to them for now. It seems that as the pace of his fingers start to slow back down, as he prepares to pull them back and she readies herself for the emptiness she is to feel in his absence, all of her senses begin to come back.

Bill lets his body slump down on her while she recovers and he places wet kisses along her bottom lip. Her breathing is still erratic, perfectly matching her heartbeat, but she's surely coming back down and it's mesmerizing to watch for him. It's something he'll probably end up drawing one night. Her eyebrows are pinch slightly, her lips drawn open, with her eyes fluttered shut. And though he will try, he isn't sure he'll be able to capture the look on her face. It sums up every feeling running through her body. It screams of sex, it screams of love, of satiation.

He brushes strands of hair from her face and asks, "Are you okay? Do you w-wanna keep going or go to s-s-sleep?"

Y/N's chest rises and falls with small droplets of sweat clinging to her ribcage. The tips of his fingers, still slightly wet from her release, trace circles in the thin layer of dew that coats her skin while he awaits a response. While she is definitely tired and her climax only pushed her closer to the brink of exhaustion, there's still something she wants to do though and sleep will not stop her. Her head falls to the side to meet his glance to find his patient eyes, soft with admiration, waiting for her.

She doesn't say anything and instead just sits up from where she lays on the mattress. The light is low in the room, with only a dying lamp's light to show her the way to him. But she still manages to find his body through the dark and now he's the one trembling under her touch. His abdomen contracts at her warm palm's gentle movements and he shifts so his back is propped against the headboard. Their bodies move to a beat neither of them consciously are aware of. It's the kind of rhythm you only gain from being entirely connected with someone. These moments of being lost under the dim light of the full moon, with no one else around but the person you love most in this world, are what finalize this connection. Because they belong to each other. With all of their hearts, bodies, and souls, they are irrevocably lost in one another.

So this is why Bill immediately understands where she's going with her actions once his briefs are thrown off in a random direction of the room and she moves to crawl overtop of him. He nearly moans aloud while rifling around in his bedside drawer for that box of condoms he bought with Richie and Stan when she settles with her hips against his.

"I-If you keep doing that this is gonna be over to f-fast."

His fingers grasp one of the square packages and he doesn't bother to close the drawer before letting her pull him back. Her eyes lock onto the trembling hands that try and fail multiple times to rip open the foil. Her hands mold over his, stopping the shaking.

"Are you nervous?" Y/N asks.

And all he does is let her take it from his hands, giving her a look that means yes.

They have a hard time tearing their eyes off each other through the process of putting it on him. Every time they force themselves to stop smiling or searching for the other's stare, they can't help but drift back. Because it's the only place they're safe to be so vulnerable and weak at the hands of another and so while they're sitting here they can't help but let their eyes roam. Their body warmth mingles in the small space between them and suddenly the room feels ten degrees hotter on their skin. Her touch moving up his chest, spreading over her shoulders feels like the kind of burn you get from ice. It's the kind of burn that hurts but for some reason it's comforting and if it left, you'd miss it.

His hands settle on the inmost curve of her waist rather than her hips, where her legs diverge on either side of him, with his fingers still involuntarily twitching every few seconds. And as distracting this is, every time he sees her he can't help but see the girl in his nightmare. He hears the screams she let out and feels the pain taking hold of him all over again. It makes his eyes fill with tears again.

"Hey," She whispers and takes his face in her hands, "I'm right here," The care in her tone makes his welled up tears fall, "I'm right here, Bill, I'm not going anywhere."

It was a terrifying experience to have to sit and watch the girl he loves scream in agony while she got ripped apart. It's the kind of image that you can't let go of easily, at least not without something far brighter and greater replacing it in your head, which hasn't happened for him yet. Their noses brush when he nods and their chests bump with his slow lean closer to her that leaves no space between them now.

There's not another person in the world besides her lover. There's not a person who burns as bright or could ever hold her heart in their hands with as much understanding and sweetness than him. And when she lifts herself up, his mouth dragging down her skin, and sinks down onto him, she can't imagine ever loving someone more than him or being loved as much as he loves her.

Bill's head falls back on the headboard in ecstasy at having her wrapped around him so tightly and he sighs contentedly into her lips, fueling the fire that's already blazing in the pit of her abdomen. The bliss that courses through them is on a level that's incomparable to anything else. Right now, there's nothing else as satisfying. When she moves for the first time, a string of curses fall from them both and it takes every ounce of concentration on his part to fight the urge to move his hips up to meet her's, knowing that she's probably already sore from Friday and now from a few minutes ago and if he pinned her down on the mattress like he wanted to he fears she'll be too sore to get out of bed.

So he bites down on his lip and grips her waist tighter to keep himself from bucking up into her, he chooses lets her adjust to him and doesn't rush her.

"Is this okay?" Y/N says, the question disappearing into the small space between their lips.

Bill nods quickly and tries to not finish right there. It's all too much for both of them. With her still sensitive from her last orgasm and him already so worked up, it's hard to hold off for the first few times she moves on him. Their planned weekend for their first time has very quickly turned into their first three times. Neither of them can seem to go longer than a few hours without stealthily eyeing the other up with desire. Ever since Friday night, they can't get enough and they can't even begin to wonder what'll happen when their lives go back to normal and they're stuck with this libido.

The bed creaks as she rocks against him and her body, already weak with pleasure, strains not to go limp with him hitting all the right spots inside of her. Bill's breath shakes with each clench of her around him. The pace is set, gentle but quick, leaving them both rattled with the pulsing of need. A need to consume, to take everything and abandon all other thought that doesn't pertain to the person in front of them. The worst part is that both of them are so helplessly needy. They both whine and moan and push the limits for more.

And when he begins to feel her contract around him and feels her chest stop mid-breath, he knows she's coming undone. The girl turns weightless above him, her body unable to move to keep rolling her hips in him through the intensity of her climax. There's nothing to stop her from falling off of the edge into a world where nothing but this kind of euphoria exists. It sends her reeling, gaping in delight.

Y/N yelps, still riding the wave, when he flattens his hands on the small of her back and pushes her against the bed so that he's on top. He prolongs her high, his thrusts deeper than they could manage before, and with every messy movement hits a spot so deep in her that she cries out and has to blink the tears from her eyes.

Bill furrows his eyebrows in frustration and tries not to focus on anything other than getting to that peak. Now the pace is set to his own accord, slow and as hard as he can go without hurting her, he's nearly there. Her arms hook under his and her hands wrap over his shoulders to give her something to grip while he searches for his own end. Still, even as he is desperate for release, he's careful not to be too rough. He holds her against him, cradles her like she'll fall away if he doesn't treat her with the utmost amount of care and affection. And seeing this kindness, she smiles and presses a kiss to his lips.

Everything within him is replaced with a white-hot sensation that flares up like an inferno in a matter of seconds. He goes still and she watches in awe at the pained expression on his face as it rocks him entirely. It's relieving for him to finally get the release that was pent up for so long. He'd had to bite back finishing just from the sounds of her moans when he was getting her off with his fingers earlier, so to at last get to relish in the rapture of it all.

They both are panting while they let their highs fade off from them, it takes longer for her this time since her sensitivity has nearly doubled since her first of the night and the overstimulation has made every graze of his skin against hers more like gasoline to a fire than how insignificant these simple touches would feel had he not just made her come twice in a row. His head rises and falls, since he's resting on her chest, with every breath she takes and he doesn't make a move to prop himself up above her until he's positive he won't collapse when he tries.

It's only when he sees the tear streaks down her face that he pauses and rests back down on her, his face hovering just above her's this time.

"Holy s-s-shit, I'm so sorry," Bill stutters out and reaches up to run his hand over the hair that rests on the edge of her cheek, "I was too r-rough and I should've been more c-careful with you, I can't believe I-"

Suddenly his chest is tightening with worry and his nightmare is real. Much less extreme, but real. Because he hurt her and how could he ever do that?

"It's not like that," She says quickly, to calm him down before he spirals again, "You didn't hurt me at all."

The tension in him eases at her reassuring words and he thumbs over her cheekbone, carefully caressing the skin while he ponders what else could be the matter.

"W-Why are you upset then? If i-it was me, you can say something you know..."

Her skin glistens with sweat under the low light of the room and he watches her closes. He sees her sniffle, sees her wipe away the remaining tears in her eyes before she speaks again.

"I'm not upset, Bill. I'm just-really happy," The next sentence comes out fast, "I didn't even realize I was crying I just couldn't stop myself because I was thinking about how much I love you and all of it got to be too much and-"

The word dies in the back of her throat when he falls forward in an impassioned kiss. He understands. Yesterday, in the basement, the pleasure became too much for him too and he ended up having to blink away tears when it was over. So he understands wholeheartedly what it means and the fact that he made her cry in such a wonderful way lights him up with joy. He himself lets a tear lose in response to her confession. And so at this moment, their hearts are full.

They stay like this for a long time, stealing slow, lazy kisses and talking softly amongst themselves for as long as they can manage before accepting that if they don't move now, they'll fall asleep like this. They both whimper when he finally pulls out of her and not surprisingly, doing so made them both realize how sore they'll be in the morning from this. But Y/N, though she dreads the inevitable whole body ache that will greet her in the morning, doesn't care. While he walks off, disposing of the condom before doing so, she takes the tissue box off of his bedside table and cleans up the slickness that coats her inner thighs and center.

And when Bill returns to the room, wet towel in hand for her as to not have her go to sleep in discomfort, he finds her sleeping naked on top of the disheveled comforter and sheets. Her chin is tucked low into the blankets and her arms are stretched out beside her as if she's missing something-someone-that is supposed to be cuddled up in them. He smiles at the sight. Nothing troubles her in her sleep, no nightmares of their monster or ghosts from her past chase her. She'd simply fallen into the bed, so riddled with exhaustion that she dozed off in a matter of seconds, with nothing but love on her mind.

He walks around the room and picks up their quite randomly discarded articles of clothing, making sure to put them in his hamper so they'll be washed for her before she has to go home tomorrow. He does a lot before he decides to retire for the night; one of which being drawing that hauntingly sexy image he can't seem to get away from. He draws her when she had been clinging to him for support after he made her come the first time and spends a lot of precious sleeping time making sure to get the image in his head justice. And by the time he's done, he's sure that he never wants anyone but the two of to ever lay an eye on this because of how scarily accurate it is. Bill's cheeks flush when he's closing his sketchbook and stowing it away under his bed. Even after doing that to her, getting such a filthy reaction from her with only his fingers, he can't help but blush at what he drew.

He makes a note to himself to buy another sketchbook, one that doesn't have naughty drawings of his girlfriend in them because he's afraid that if he ever sees her make such a face again, which he fully plans to, he'll just have to draw it.

The boombox sits, finally silent after hours of constant replay, on the corner of his desk. It's so easy to remember every moment the music became nothing to him. Whenever they kept close, whenever she kissed him, let alone when she'd rode him, the music faded into white noise and all he could hear was the symphony of gentle moans and heavy pants they created, the real music.

His arms slip under the gentle slope where her knees curve into her calves and just underneath the nape of her neck and he lifts her off of the mattress. Y/N doesn't make a single movement through all of this when usually she could wake to the sound of a pin dropping. Instead, she stays peacefully asleep in his arms as he lays her down and tucks the blankets over the both of them.

"Goodn-night," He whispers into her cheek and lets his arm fall over her waist, "I love you."

And when she snuggles into his side in her sleep, he smiles.


	4. Sun and Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine years following the weekend they spent together in Derry, Bill and Y/N, now twenty-seven years old and married, go on a vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took me a whole ass month but I love this fic so

It has been a long time since they've had a weekend like this.

The quiet of the cabin has been getting on her nerves for the past few hours she's spent by herself with only the crackling of the fireplace to fill the silence. But to take her mind off it, she picked up a book she'd been reading on the drive here and reads, loses herself in the story and the characters until it's been a few hours since she picked up the novel. It's only when she hears the front door unlocking from across the living room that she looks up.

The last time they'd planned a weekend alone together like this was when they were mere teenagers, years ago and hadn't even touched each other yet. It takes a lot for her not to smile fondly at the memory of it as she stands from her seat on the couch, recalling those days they spent together, unable to tear themselves away from his childhood bedroom in Derry. Back when she wasn't accustomed to the ways of living with him and now...she's been living with him for eight years ever since he asked her to move into his apartment their first year of college. Ever since it's been history.

And even now, she's still not used to the foreign feeling of the weight of her ring on her left hand. Even after a whole year of marriage, of never once taking it off, it feels odd to think that she's actually someone's wife. But despite the out of place feeling she sometimes gets from the piece of jewelry, she's grown to love it.

Bill comes through the door cursing under his breath at the inches of snow he had to traipse through outside their cabin and almost doesn't close the door behind him in time before some snow started to fall onto the hardwood floors.

Getting married wasn't his idea, it was her's. And only for the sake of having the all the benefits and rights a married couple has over a non-married one. It wasn't that they didn't like the idea of being husband and wife. More like they didn't care enough about a government-issued piece of paper stating that they were in love. He went on about it for a little while before admitting that he too figured it was a good idea to make it official, even though he swore and still swears to this day they don't need to be married to be in love. Her parents ended up being proof enough that marriage isn't always a sign of a perfect relationship. The thought of them makes her heart fall into her stomach and so she banishes those memories for now in favor of greeting him at the door.

Snowflakes are scattered throughout his hair, the dots of bright white a stark difference to his head of reddish hair with brown locks peeking out every other strand.

"If you hate the snow so much why do you insist upon bringing me up here?" Her eyes flick down from his face to his hands, gloveless and flushed from the cold, "Are you cold? Give em' here."

Her warm hands wrap around his larger, colder ones and bring them up to her lips. Before getting to work on warming them up she presses a tender kiss to his knuckles, her eyes dancing with mischief and teasing flirtation. All he does is roll his eyes while she breathes out hot air on to his freezing skin.

"I come up here because I know you luh-luh-love it. Plus it gets us away from Richie's terrible jokes for a few days so I don't mind the weather."

The past few years have been life-changing for them. Three years ago was when his first book was published, which got them out of their shitty apartment on the bad side of their city and got them into a home that they share with the Losers in a place where his girlfriend didn't have to carry pepper spray when she walks the dog. This place, though it isn't home, is one of her favorite places on earth. It's a cabin they bought in the mountains for weekends like this when they need to have an escape from their lives. Looking around it, you can see why she loves it so much.

The fire flares up slightly in the hearth beside the couch where her unfinished book still rests, abandoned now that he's home to keep her company. Everything about their cozy little cabin in the mountains makes her feel at ease and relaxed. With no one else around them for miles and the nearest store eight miles away by car, they're all alone as well, which makes for very interesting and loud nights.

He follows her to the kitchen where she pours him a cup of tea to match the one on the couch-side table beside her book.

"There, hopefully that'll warm you up, you big baby," Y/N says with a soft laugh that makes his heart swell with love.

He's practically swaddled in jackets and warm clothing while she stands, not shivering nor looking at all uncomfortable, in her fleece-lined leggings, cable-knit sweater, and socks pulled up to her knees. The fact that she has such a high tolerance for cold makes him want to scream. Of course, the love of his life's preferred vacation spot is in a freezing cold mountain peak where the sun can barely find them while he can barely stand to be in forty degree weather back in Seattle, where they live. He much prefers the rain at home to the tundra she adores so dearly. But in the end, he adores her dearly, so the tundra it is.

When inside though, it isn't too bad. There are heaters plugged in by the windows and blankets tossed on nearly every piece of furniture in the place, along with that hearth to keep them warm. It's only when he has to leave the cabin that he gets whiney about the temperature.

"I can think of a few ways to keep w-warm..." Bill says quietly, unsure of what she'll say next.

The words make her stop short for a moment, everything inside of her freezing and arousal filling her instantly with his words. She has to press her thighs together, which he notes from his spot on the other side of the kitchen island, to relieve the sudden ache inside of her. It takes a moment to compose herself after the comment, but she manages to push that rising desire down quickly. It hit her like a sucker punch.

They haven't had the chance to have sex while they've been here. Most of their time has been spent going outside in the snow, much to Bill's dismay, or doing respective activities on their own time. They only got to the cabin last night and didn't bother with sex or anything in that nature because if how exhausting the road trip had been. For most of their relationship, they've been incredibly sexually active. With both of them having high sex drives and all, ever since that first weekend they spent wrapped up together in his house in Derry nine years ago, it hasn't slowed down save for a few busy months of working and school here or there. Richie says they fuck like rabbits--which he'd know since he's walked in on them an unfortunate about of times in college--and they can't exactly say otherwise. It took a while for them to get away from being shameful about it, with the stigma that sex can have. It took a long time for them to not give a shit.

"You're such a little shit, drink your tea and warm yourself up for a few minutes before you decide to jump on me," She breathes out with a soft giggle, "How was it down at the Cafe? Did you get any writing done?"

Typically, he doesn't write while they're up here but today he needed to. Today the need to write was so crushing and overwhelming he left first thing in the morning and left her a note telling her where he'd be. So all day, they've been apart. Not the start to their weekend that either of them wanted, but a necessary day he needed to take for himself so that now that he's back with her he can focus on solely her. The Cafe is eight miles away, not too bad a drive even in the snow if you're careful. It's a quaint, privately owned little shop on the corner of the small town's main street. He found it a nice place to write the first time they visited the cabin after buying it and ends up going there quite often if she's not awake during the day.

Y/N pads across the floor noiselessly, a too-large mug of herbal tea between her palms, and sits back down on her chair in the corner of the living room. The fire's warmth stretches far past the hearth to warm her feet through the thick socks. He watches her chest deflate with a satisfied sigh.

This is why he brings her here.

When they start to become suffocated by the pace of their lives back home, the cabin is a place of safety and comfort for them to retreat to when they need it. And it's her happy place. A part of him can simply sense the relaxed, joyful mood radiating from within her and the rest comes from what he can see; her body slumped into the chair, feet propped up on the ottoman in front of her, eyes shut, and a soft smile blooming across her face. Everything about her screams of bliss and inner peace.

Sometimes it scares her how well he knows her.

"Some, not as much as I'd like, but who am I to comp-p-plain."

Bill sits on the edge of the couch closest to her. His long legs cross at the ankles as he stretches out completely, tired from the day he had. And as he starts to peel off his layers of jackets, he speaks.

"You read all day?" The first winter coat falls onto the coffee table with a thud, "Because that looks like a seven-hundred pager and you're almost f-f-finished with it."

Her smile makes him feel warm.

"Yeah, I did shockingly sit in this very spot for eight hours and not move an inch the whole time. I'm glad I'm that predictable," She says jokingly, sipping from her mug without ever taking eyes off him.

They live for these weekends, just as they did when they were younger and met up once a month when his parents went out of town. Being able to bask in the company of solely the person you love is a blessing they only get to have when they're here. Here, there's no one around for miles. Here, there's only the crackling of the fire and the taste of hot tea on their tongues. It's these moments, when he sits in the silence and watches her so closely, eyeing every little movement and breath, that really get him. It feels surreal that she picked this life with him. Sometimes it starts to feel like a dream of sorts that he has yet to wake up from and come back to a sad reality without her. She chose him. She chose him for every day from now until the end of their lives. It baffles and dizzies him that she ended up loving him back in the first place; that he's who she wants to spend the rest of her life with.

The tips of his fingers trace the ring on his left hand absentmindedly as he stares at her. Wife.

"What's wrong?" Her voice goes gentle.

The inexplicable ability she seems to have of reading him perfectly. It still confuses him how she can know what's going on with him so well without even asking. It's the kind of sixth sense you grow only from being with someone for as long as they've been together.

"The writing sucked..." He admits, his head tipping back to rest on the back of the couch.

Lately, things have been different, tense, for him. Ever since the New Year began he hasn't been able to write like he'd done before. It was a quick, shocking shift in his daily life that has set him on edge. Not being able to write...it's hurt him more than he could ever admit. He sat at the Cafe while staring at his laptop screen for hours. If anything, he got a few paragraphs down and the drive back was so staggeringly quiet, all he could hear in his head was the deafening sound of all the words he didn't get to write.

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't been able to write lately and whatever I do s-suh-sucks. I'm a f-f-fucking mess," He says quietly.

Her face twists with concern and suddenly that arousal he'd gotten stirring inside of her a moment ago is nowhere to be found, replaced with worry for her love. The way he feels when he's not writing is notably different than usual. It's how she is when she's tired or upset, but intensified-almost anxious or buzzing with the unspent energy he would've been using on writing. The weight of it wears so heavily on his shoulders that it's almost visible. Her heart aches for him.

"That's terrible," Y/N says, "How long have you been in this slump?"

He hadn't bothered to tell anyone what's been getting on his nerves, not even her, so his answer is a little bit of a shock seeing that it's been a whole month since it's started.

"Since the New Year. I didn't tell you because I t-thought it was a small one, you know, maybe a weeklong thing..."

This only happens a few times a year, but when it does, he gets irritable and cranky. Only when he's with her does the irritability calm and, thankfully, he's completely alone with her for the next few days. It'd be a lie to say that sex doesn't sound awfully appealing as a way to ease the anxiety of wondering if he'll ever write again, or if he does; if it'll ever be as good as it was before. The idea of losing himself, losing those bad thoughts and just existing with her into the long hours of the night sets him at ease. It sets his whole body at ease.

Then he wants her to hold him, love him, cradle him. He wants her and can't envision a world where that would ever be changed.

Bill stands from his spot on the couch without another word, making for the bedroom door, but is halted by her hand gripping his wrist.

"Are you okay?" The hand on his wrist glides up the length of his arm and sends shivers down his spine, "You seem tense."

And as answer he dips his head to be level with her's and presses a needy, slow-moving kiss to her lips. The kiss makes her legs wobble weakly and her head spin. Every time, it still hasn't gotten old. The spark between them still hasn't faded. Even after all these years of being together, they haven't gotten tired of it. They pull apart reluctantly, both wanting more.

"I'm gonna go have a s-shower..." He adds sheepishly, but gets his message across, "You can join if you want."

The words make her smile so brightly that her eyes crinkle at the sides, but she shakes her head, her hands running up and down his shoulders lazily.

"No, you go wash up, I'll wait for you out here," And as he walks off and rounds the corner into the bedroom she says, "I never did like shower sex anyway."

His laughter fills the room around her.

-

It was the quickest shower of his life.

He washed down his body as quickly as he possibly could with the idea of her waiting for him out in the living room fresh in his mind. Meanwhile, though, she's getting dressed. (More like undressed). The fabric of the night "dress" is soft against the delicate skin of her breasts and as she stares at herself in the mirror, she begins to wonder if it's a bit much. Barring any insecurities about the get up being a little too intense for either of their tastes, she looks absolutely gorgeous if she's to say so herself. The dress itself is more of a scrap of cloth the size of a too-small t-shirt if anything, a sheer scrap of red fabric that is loosely fit around her curves. Other than her naked skin, the only thing under the see-through nightie is a skimpy pair of panties she bought for these occasions. They're red, to match the lingerie she so seldom uses.

Beverly had taken her out the day before they left for their trip to have her "spice up" her sex life with a few sexy undergarments. To which she responded by telling her friend that their sex life is "spicy" enough and none of her business. At the end of the shopping adventure though, she bought only what she's wearing now. It was the tamest thing she could find that damned store and she knew it'd be enough to drive him crazy anyway. The way she sees it, she doesn't need any of this for sex with him. All they need is each other and that's enough. But how could it hurt to venture out a little? It couldn't hurt to up the ante.

The sound of the faucet turning off breaks her out of her thoughts instantly and she ends up rushing through the doorway of the bedroom, practically jumping into the chair in the corner of the room as he opens the bathroom door. For a few minutes, he walks, from what she hears it sounds more like stomping, around the other side of the cabin while he dries off and does god-knows-what while she waits for him in silence.

He almost trips over himself at first glimpse of his wife stretched out in barely any clothes in front of him. When she'd said she would be waiting for him he never thought she meant this way...Nevertheless, he has to pull his towel back up from where it had fallen lower on his hips when he almost tripped.

"You've seen me naked a thousand times, I thought that after a while you'd stop gawking," Y/N teases him.

That fucking dress...If you could even call it one since it stops at the very top of her thighs, exposing her panties to him slightly as she shifts her legs. But the confidence wavers slightly and her eyes drop to the floor, suddenly aware of the stare trained on her so fiercely. It never stops being so shocking to her; the idea that he's as in love with her as she is him. And sometimes she has moments of clarity much like right now where she is overcome with the thought that maybe he's made a mistake. Maybe she's not the right person and it's all a trick. There's not a day that goes by that she doesn't thank whatever higher power that watches over her for him. He's a blessing to her.

Bill kneels on the ground in front of her with his hands to himself, for now, as he lets his eyes fall over the whole get-up.

The sight of her breasts through the fabric of the slip dress makes him swallow back the lump in his throat. She's never worn this kind of thing for him before tonight. Typically, their needs are more simplistic. Typically, she doesn't bother with lingerie or anything much other than a sexier than usual set of undergarments. So this alone has him hard already, to say the least. He's straining against the towel tied around his hips.

"I've never seen you wear this bef-f-fore," He murmurs.

The room feels hotter when his hand meets the exposed skin of her thigh and her mind hazes with the contact. Every beat of her heart becomes faster, echoing the thought in her mind, "He's touching me, he's touching me, he's touching me-" That familiar aching inside of her makes her subtly writhe with his hand planted so firmly on her to get him to move his touch further up. The rush she gets from being with him, it never fades. Countless years of love, of being together, and not one bit of her heart has pulled away from him since that weekend when they were younger. That can only be remembered as the days when her soul became irrevocably intertwined with his.

He slides both of his hands up the expanse of her thighs until they're gripping both hips.

"Because I bought it before we left," And once she sees him raise a brow at her in curiosity, she elaborates, "Beverly...and Richie, kind of, he waited for us outside the dressing rooms."

Everywhere he touches, feels as if it were set aflame and she burns brighter with every inch he moves his fingertips closer to where she needs them. Even the fire burning just to their left is no match for how hot he turns her.

"Ah," An inch closer to her inner thigh, "I figured. Those two are a-always up to something. Plotting my death seems to be their plan because..." He stops moving his hands, "You look f-fucking amazing and I'm pretty sure you're trying to give me a heart attack."

Her chest dips with her gentle laughter and his eyes follow the movement, trained on her body beneath the teasing little piece of lingerie. Bill can't help himself as he pulls her to the edge of the chair's cushion so that her legs are on either side of him and his face-his face is so close to her clothed core that the feeling of his exhale makes her want to squeeze her legs together. It's the look on her face though that makes him want to lean forward and press a kiss to her through the panties. He puts a leash on that desire for now.

"Wuh-What're you thinking?"

And she almost crumbles at the sweet sound of his voice asking her that, those bright blues never once yielding.

With a waver in her voice, Y/N tells him, "I'm thinking about how much I like seeing you on your knees for me."

The soft kiss he presses to her hip bone, the start of that brutal scar she'd gotten in the Cistern at thirteen, does make her crumble though and any control she'd had over her noises flies out the window. A near-silent moan falls from her lips.

Bill gives her a mischievous smile and hooks his fingers under the waistband of her panties.

-

Sunlight shines in through the window of their bedroom in shafts through the partly closed blinds and curtains and warms Y/N's naked back. Last night is ingrained in her mind and as she comes to all she can feel is him all over her. Not an inch of skin left untouched, not a second that she doesn't feel him on her lips, feel his hands sliding up and down her-

The sound of his groaning snaps her out of her half-asleep daze and the bed creaks in reaction to his shifting onto his other side to face her.

For a few minutes, she lays in wake of the humming silence of the early morning, his chest, warm and a solid wall in front her, presses against her chest. Thoughts, of last night and what always gnaws at her, fill her mind. Lately, she's been lost in her mind with her head in the clouds and all that she'd been able to think of when she's near him is one thing. It started a few months after they got married as an inkling of a thought when they'd been babysitting a friend's one-year-old baby. It was the beginning of this loose thread that she still has yet to stop pulling on. The more she pulls, the more she thinks about it, the worse it gets.

Last night as she started to fall asleep, his arms wrapped around her body, she couldn't help but wonder once more what it would be like. Even now, she still sees that image in her head of a little kid with auburn hair and eyes like its father. And especially now as they lay face to face, her gaze finding those haunting eyes, she thinks of it.

"How'd you sleep?" Bill asks, his voice low and rough with sleep.

She yawns through the first few words, "It's funny you ask that since you were the one who kept me up until," It takes a moment to recall the time she remembered seeing on the alarm clock as they fell asleep, "two in the morning."

The bare expanse of his chest slides against her's as he rolls over onto her, burying his face into the curve of her neck. She savors the feeling of warmth radiating off his skin and shuts her eyes in appreciation. Every brush of his body on her's sends shockwaves throughout her, sensitivity from last night so clearly overwhelming that she wonders how she'll do when she has to stand up. One time, right in front of all of their friends back home, she had to have him carry her down the stairs after a weekend they'd spent together. The Losers had never had so much joke material in his life. To be fair that weekend was somewhat of a celebration for his second book getting published, so he was fresh out of editing to fill his schedule and she was up for a celebration.

His exhale is hot against her neck as he mumbles into her, "You didn't seem to m-muh-mind it yesterday."

He feels her laughter deep in his chest and lifts his head from the base of her neck to see her face, shining with happiness and a smile that makes his stomach twist itself into a knot. The laughter slows though at the feeling of something pressing against her upper thigh. It's a surprise that she hadn't noticed it before given that when he'd rolled on top of her, it'd been there, but he woke up hard, hadn't even realized it until a moment ago. It isn't necessarily uncommon for this to happen with him, especially after a night like the one they just had, he'll find himself getting hard more easily and sometimes has to ignore it until it goes away. That's what he figures this morning will be like since, after all, they did spend the entire night together, until he sees her eyebrows raise at him in question. His dick can't help but twitch in interest at the mere possibility of attention from her.

"I didn't know I had that much of an effect on you."

Liar, he wants to say. She knows very well what she does to him or at least has some idea of it. Still, he keeps his hips from brushing with her's in case this doesn't go in the direction he now hopes it does.

"I guess," Her voice is soft, barely loud enough to reach his ears, "I could help you out."

His body is set on fire with every inch of skin her hand slides over from his shoulders down the length of his torso. She makes it a point to linger just above where he needs her for a second too long before she moves her hand over the obvious tent in his underwear. The sound of him taking a hard breath in through his teeth and feeling of his entire being, muscles, tendons, bones, and ligaments, all tensing underneath the touch of her palm on him through the fabric of his underwear makes her want to flip him over and straddle him despite the soreness that attacks her body.

The fact that she may not even realize how fucking good she's making him feel with such a quick touch...He leans into her generous offer and-just once-presses his hips into the palm of her hand to get some much-needed friction. Every rush of blood steers straight down instantly and before he can pull back from her hand, he's fully up and hard against her. But she doesn't pull back, nor does she give him the slightest bit of a hint that she wants him to stop, so he doesn't.

Bill falls into a slow, rolling rhythm with every needy grind he makes into her hand. And somewhere along the line he doesn't even realize he's muttering helplessly, a mess already, "F-Feels s-s-so fuh-fucking good..."

He doesn't even hear her whispering to him over the deafening, ringing silence within himself as the pleasure runs through him, wanting more, more, more. It comes to a point where this isn't enough. He wants to feel her hands on him, he wants to feel her lips on his bare skin. And, thankfully, she seems to catch on with every whine of frustration he lets loose. He was practically starting to shed tears or at least it seemed that way on her end.

The second her hand wraps around his erection, slipped underneath the fabric of his underwear, he loses it. Every ounce of restraint and grasp on reality, of where and who he is, is gone. All he can feel or ever remember feeling is this.

He watches her through heavy-lidded eyes as she lazily pulls the only clothes he has still on down from where they rest low on his hips. The way she treats him breaks his heart. Only by observing her closely could you see it, but she treats him like a precious work of art. She treats him like something so incredibly valuable that she must protect with every piece of her. And even in a moment like this one, so clouded with sexual arousal and need, she makes him feel not only satisfied but loved. That's what makes this so pleasurable for him. If it were anyone other than her, it wouldn't be nearly as good. Only she could get this kind of reaction out of him.

The daze of sleep that he'd been in is long gone, replaced by a much more enjoyable kind of trance. It's quite the experience to be able to see Bill Denbrough overwhelmed with sexual pleasure. And once she'd been asked, after regrettably drinking an entire bottle of wine with Richie and Bev, what it was like with Bill/how good he is in bed. It isn't out of the ordinary for the three of them to talk about such topics, sex is actually one of the more common conversation topics for the three. But whenever they try to ask her, she almost always refuses out of respect for Bill-though with Richie and Bev, two friends he trusts most in the world, he could care less and has probably told them more than Y/N ever would. It took her an eternity to form a response that night.

Being with Bill is a mixture of emotions that she can never seem to place. Sometimes, she can't tell if she's happy or overwhelmed or even sad. He has a way of turning her into a storm of emotion. When they were younger, fresh out of High School and eager to jump on one another at any spare moment, he was a slightly different kind of lover. Back then, he was less sure of what he was doing and as a result, every touch of his hands on her felt fleeting as if she feared never feeling it again. Nowadays, he's the opposite. It comes with years of practice and coming to know your partner's body nearly as well as your own, but it feels like he's always confident in what he's doing when he's with her. Unless they're trying something they haven't done before or if it's something that doesn't fall under his specialties, more specifically giving head and being very good with his hands, his actions always feel steady and firm-almost like coming home and knowing your way around your house blindfolded. Though he's still just as keen on taking his time and practically worshipping her body for what always feels to her like years before even paying attention to his own desires. Sometimes, in times just like this morning, he lets her take care of him in the same way he does her.

Y/N's hands and lips are only gone for a second, the longest second of his life, before she falls back on the mattress, the sound of the bedside drawer shutting echoing through the room. The rising plume of desire in the pit of his abdomen begs for a touch, if only a brush of her hand against him, to satisfy the utterly desperate state of neediness he's in. And for a short moment, he's not above the idea of begging for it like he sometimes gets her to do. Not intentionally most of the time-rarely does he ask for her to no matter how much he does love hearing it-but instead because of how much he teases her. A lot of the time she has to beg him to stop the foreplay and just fuck her already, a problem not many of her friends find themselves relating to.

But the real kicker of being with him is the way he looks at her as if she's the sun and stars in his world. When she told Bev and Richie this, despite any jokes the latter cracked, it made both of their hearts swell with love for their friends. So she doesn't mind it when she has to beg and writhe and pout to get him to stop constantly fussing over her satisfaction; she loves it. She loves him.

He stuffs down the urge to relieve the ache of his hard-on and keeps his hands where they are, braced on either side of her. She takes only a few seconds in pouring a generous amount of the lube on the palm of her hand and warming it up since she knows from times they've done this before that it's what he prefers.

The first slow pump of her hand on his cock makes him shudder. It was interesting, to say the least, the first time she'd gotten him off this way. They were much less experienced than they are now and for him, it was odd to have her do something he usually did to himself. Nevertheless, it became something they did every so often; if she ever walked in on him jacking off or if he sought her out for it, wanting to be able to touch and feel her rather than use his imagination. Today is one of those days.

They kiss each other deeply as she continues the painstakingly slow pace. He accepts the fact that she's going to do this whenever she jacks him off. With himself, he has zero patience and, most of the time gives in to every little desire and wish of his own. But when she does it, she takes her time in building him up to that point and drives him wild with overwhelming need each time. She kisses him in time with every pump of her hand around him and if it weren't for her lips muffling the sounds he's making, she'd hear every delicious groan and trembling gasp he lets out.

Their lips and tongues part enough for him to whisper hotly into her mouth since he knows that soon enough he'll be too much of a stuttering mess to tell her, "I l-love you."

And she hums-more like moans-in response at that, the kiss intensifying in reaction to the words she could never get tired of hearing from him. Their teeth clash every so often in the sheer ferocity of the kiss with their tongues intertwining and caressing and exploring endlessly. The pounding of their hearts seem to mimic the cadence of the words with every quick beat, I love you. Their lips part as he moans. I love you. He is practically writhing beneath her touch at this point. Her outright refusal to go any faster than this snail's pace is driving him out of his mind. Every sense in his body tells him more. Even if it's only a little bit faster, even if it's only the brush of her fingertips on the sensitive underside of him, he'd appreciate it endlessly.

"P-P-Puh-" He has to stop and force himself to relax, to focus on what he wants to say since he's already stuttering much more than usual.

The palm of her free hand cups his cheek comfortingly as if to give support and stability as he struggles to speak. She's never been one to interrupt him or finish a word or sentence for him while he's stuttering. If he can manage to get through it, though there's embarrassment, there's a twinge of pride he gets from it as well for managing to get through it. It's a wonder for him to be able to speak a full sentence when he's having sex; something this distracting worsens the stutter.

Bill whispers into her skin, "P-Puh-Please."

When she finally gives in to what he wants, he almost collapses on top of her. The feeling of her hand wrapped around him, a loose grip with the exception of where her hand meets the underside of his member which she makes sure to pay more attention to as she pumps her hand at a speed so perfect for him that he's a speechless, gasping and moaning mess. He'd already felt that fire building in the pit of his abdomen before, but now it has tripled and he's a blazing inferno. Now he's trembling and holding onto her like a lifeline.

"M'C-Close..." He murmurs as she presses kisses as smooth as silk to his jaw, her lips red and kiss-swollen on his burning skin.

She can definitely tell he's close to finishing, even without him letting her know. It's easy to read him, especially when he's as worked up as he is now, with his hips jerking into her hand every few seconds he's practically doing all of the work himself. And she lets him, encourages him, as his face scrunches with concentration and he whispers words to her that she can barely understand. Most of them sound like barely audible yeah's and whines of the word "please" under his breath, his stutter getting in the way. But that's only her guess since he's so close to the brink of an orgasm that everything he says will sound muffled and unintelligible to her.

For a long moment, he's teetering on the edge and all of that building need and desire is being satisfied perfectly and the feeling of her hand tight around him is so good. For a moment, all he feels is bliss and euphoria as he chases his climax. For a moment, all he feels is the overwhelming amount of pleasure she's giving him.

Bill comes all over her stomach and chest, the fluid sticking to her skin in ropes as he leans back slightly, using his own hand to ride out the remainder of his orgasm. Between the incredible ecstasy and her hands all over him, rubbing up and down his arms, and her lips on his neck, teeth nipping the sensitive skin she's come to find as his sweet spot; he's in heaven. He's trembling as the rest of his come leaks out of him and onto her lower abdomen in drops. He's finally coming down from his high...

Y/N ignores the gross feeling of the liquid sticking to her skin and leans up to press a kiss to his lips. He kisses her back weakly, as if he's still not quite all there again, and lets out an exhale of relief at the realization that she's still with him, still loving him and holding him through it all. That she's real. It feels like his heart is coming home when he looks into her eyes.

"Are you feeling more awake?" She pulls back to ask him and brushes back his sweat-slick hair, "Hell of a wake-up call, huh?"

And he smiles at her gratefully, wondering what he ever did to deserve her, and practically pounces on her to connect their lips in another kiss. She ends up having to remind him that she's in desperate need of a shower because of the mess he made on her. To which he responds to by immediately running off to get a washcloth, offering a soft "Sorry" as he hands it to her, the fabric warm with water.

Every time he turns away she can't help but wonder...

-

The day passes by horribly slow for the both of them. Some of Bill's desire to create has come back since, after all, his passion hadn't burnt out entirely. Today, he got farther than he ever did before in getting back to writing and while anyone else considers that success, he doesn't. He wants to write again, the way he did months ago. He wants to feel the words he's writing in the very essence of his soul and write for pleasure again. This slump has been silently killing him. Writing is his passion, what makes him him and to not know his next step? To not even have the inspiration to write? It makes him greatly appreciate the many days he can write throughout the year. It feels like there's something missing for him that he needs before he can write like there's an unresolved tension within him that he needs to find and unravel before he can get to writing again.

He runs a through his hair, so different in color the white of his skin and the reddish brown tones of his hair. Lately, he's found himself wondering what their kid would look like if they had a child sometime in the future. Sometimes, on these almost-daily trips to the town's Café, all he does is sit and daydream for hours at a time with unmoving fingers splayed across the keyboard below him. He never meant for the small, privately owned café to become his escape place when he's awake and she's passed out, but it still ended up becoming one. It's almost better than writing; this daydreaming of what is to become of them. Today he'd spent ten minutes debating with himself about what their kid would look like, whether it would have his eyes or her's or whether they would want to be a writer like him, pursue a passion of their Mother's, or do something entirely their own. It wasn't often that he daydreamt about their future. After all, he much prefers living in the present. That is, until this trip. There's something about the solitude and the comfort, the support, that it carries with it that has been sending these thoughts into his head. He remembers the first flash of the daydream well. It was the first night they got here and she'd smiled at him, brightly and beautifully in a way only she could pull off. The smile was almost identical to the one she'd worn when they were babysitting her best friend's baby.

The sun was shining in through the windows of the living room in their house-the living room they furnished by themselves. The living room they painted with their best friends. The living room he now imagines his child growing up in. When he looked at her holding that baby, he couldn't help himself, he had to imagine-if only for a few seconds-what it would've been like if the child was theirs. And still, he hasn't admitted it to himself that he's ready to have one of their own. A part of him is afraid that she isn't ready, that she'd only be doing it for him and that's the last thing he'd want her to have to do out of "obligation". There's a fear in the back of his mind that maybe she made a mistake and she'll realize it when she has his child, that maybe she'll be too afraid of having damaged goods. Maybe she'll look at him, really look at him, and want to turn away...from the possibility that the kid might turn out like him.

"Sir?" A voice pulls him out of his swarming thoughts, "Are you alright?"

A little girl with bright blue eyes looks up at him. His chest feels hollow from the sight. It doesn't help with the current situation. But before he says a word, her mom walks up, apologizes for her daughter's supposed intrusion, then walks away with the girl's smaller hand encased in her own.

For a long time, he tries to write, but simply can't.

-

While he's busy at the Café, she's home, in the cabin, doing everything she possibly can to distract herself from her thoughts. She's probably cleaned up the living room a total of five times and took two baths already to "relax" but ended up getting out each time. The truth is, she's anxious and all of these distractions are only keeping her mind off of it for a few minutes before they come crashing back in.

They don't do this...they don't hide their insecurities and anxieties from one another. It's almost an unspoken rule of their relationship. So the result of holding all of this in is detrimental to her. Part of her wants to tell him, but the other part worries, that even if they weren't through with it, she'd regret it. Because she doesn't want their child to live with the horrors they had. What would happen if It gets to them in thirteen years? And even the possibility of that monster getting its hands on her child, a child of their's that doesn't even exist, makes her jaw clench in anger. No one deserves to go through what they had to and to bring someone into a world where something so terrible could happen to them? She wonders if it'd be a mercy to not have a kid so that they won't have to face the demons of their parents' past.

But then a sweeter, gentler voice whispers to her in the darkest corners of her mind. Bill's lulling voice soothes the worry and fear. The image of his face and the sound of him talking quietly in her memory pulls her away from her anxiety for a few seconds. And in those few seconds, she couldn't imagine a better way to have their future pave out than to add to their little family.

She's laying on the bed with her eyes shut, curled up amongst the piles of blankets and sheets, as she pictures their life together. It all started when they were children themselves. The one person of their friends she'd tell she's pregnant first, other than Bill of course, would be Stan. At least that's who she'd want to tell first. He always knows what to say to her, always has the best advice. Stan loves Bill and her more than he does his own family so learning that they're having a kid would make him endlessly happy and he'd probably smile at her brighter than he ever has before. Then, she would get their friends together and tell them. And even though he makes a point to keep himself distanced from them, he'd call his parents to tell them the news.

Then she would get to enjoy being pregnant. To enjoy the goods and bads of growing a human being inside of her, a concept she would be baffled by every day of it. The future, when she thinks of it this way, feels a lot brighter. When she imagines Bill holding the baby and the light in his eyes when he sees it for the first time.

Despite all of the terrifying possibilities and all of the things that would keep her up at night, it's what she wants. She wants, more than anything, to do this. And for a few seconds, she's confident and ready, feeling like nothing could take the sense of strength from her until the front door opens a room over.

The sound of him shivering and cursing at the cold as he strips off his layers of jackets and unzips his snow boots pulls her from the depths to which she'd plunged within herself to conjure up such a vivid daydream. It had almost felt real. The whole time she lays and listens silently to him moving about the living room and kitchen, getting a glass of water and wiping the snowflakes out of his hair, going about what he needs to do before trying to find where in the cabin she is.

"Y/N?"

Hesitantly, she says, "I'm in here."

It's fine for the first few minutes that he's in the room. For most of it, she tries to tell herself that he won't want to right now and get the idea out of her head. What about It, what about the monster that lurks in Derry, Maine? Anything to silence the undeniable wave of anxious feeling that roils in her stomach. In the end, she ends up blurting it out the second he gets on his side of the bed.

"I think I'm ready to have a baby with you."

It came out different than she'd planned, but once the words are out, that's it. Suddenly her cards are on the table and nothing feels better than letting all of her pent-up feelings and worries flood out. He goes still in front of her.

"No, I know, I know I'm ready. Bill, I-"

His eyes are unblinking as they stare at her, clinging to every word and emotion she finally reveals to him. The surprise on his face isn't at all hidden.

"I've loved you since we were thirteen years old...I've loved you almost my whole life now and I know we said we were going to wait but, I don't want to," Y/N lets out a soft huff of laughter, "You know, I haven't been able to say it for a while now and I've been trying my best to. But I can't keep it to myself, I'm ready...I keep thinking of our future and something I've found is that I never see it with us being alone."

The sound of the fireplace crackling bridges the gaps of silence she takes in stopping and forcing herself to breathe. Air has never felt so fresh.

"I know that you're afraid of being a dad. I'm afraid of being a mom, I'm afraid of the responsibility and how clueless we're going to be. I'm afraid of It somehow finding them and doing to our child exactly what it did to us. So, you might be afraid and want to wait. And if you do, I'm willing to wait. But you should know I'm also extremely terrified of it too."

When Bill Denbrough was a child, before his entire world was destroyed following the death of his little brother, he got a lot of love from his mother and father. He was their world, their sun and stars. In a time where there was nothing that couldn't be fixed by hugs, kisses, and steaming mugs of his mom's hot chocolate. Where sitting beside her as she played the piano was his therapy, his safety net in the world. In this time, he had wonderful parents. They would read stories he'd write and put them up on the refrigerator, telling him how much of a talented person he was. They would cuddle with him, and years later Georgie, every night. It was the epitome of unconditional love, or so he thought. But everything shattered the day their youngest son left their lives. It was an instant disconnect and ever since they haven't loved him as dearly as they once did. For a long time, they barely acknowledged his existence in the wake of such a loss. They turned their backs on him; neglected him and he isn't sure if he will ever fully recover from that.

That would be the last thing he'd ever do to someone he loves and, in a way, what happened to him showed him what not to do.

His weight shifting on the mattress startles her at first, the first movement in a long space of silence and stillness. It's to hold her hand.

In the midst of a turbulent storm in the emotion of her confession, Bill says calmly, "I was lu-luh-l-lucky enough to have someone to look out for me and care about me when my p-parents didn't. You were like a savior to me back then and even now..."

The memory of a weekend, the first one of great significance, they'd spent together rings through her mind. He'd told her, "You're a f-f-fucking angel." Never did she take that as literally as he'd meant it, as literally as he wanted her to take it. That not only was he stupidly in love with her but that she might as well have been his guardian angel. The only objection she'd have to make to that is that they saved each other. It wasn't a one-way streak. After what they'd been put through at such a young age, they clung to one another for support, knowing that their parents would never believe the truth and therefore no one else could comfort them. And through that, they fell into this life-changing love that has brought them here. So, in her eyes, she wasn't his savior, they'd mutually helped each other.

"Even now, I look at you and wonder what I did to deserve someone as w-w-wuh-wonderful as you. I thought-" He sighs through his nose, "I've been thinking about this too. The whole time we've been up here it's all I could think about and every time I've looked at you, it's all I wanted to say."

Finally, he says softly, the crackling of the fire across the room accompanying the sound of his voice perfectly, "I don't think you're ever r-r-ready and I think it's supposed to be scary. So you should know, I w-want this too. I've wanted it for a long time."

It's hard to do much of anything other than pull him in after all that was just said. Her arms slide around his shoulders, her body shifting into his lap as she flings herself on him in a bone-crushingly tight embrace. The worries float away one by one, melting into nothing with every second they stay like this. Her eyes are filled with tears when he sees them next, their noses brushing as she places kisses to his lips and whispers to him in the safe quiet of the cabin that she loves him more than anything.

Bill keeps her cradled in his arms, not letting her fuss and take care of him like he knows she'll want to and instead takes control, wipes the tears off of her cheeks, and starts to kiss her.

It's a kiss that will forever be ingrained in her memory, her heart, for the rest of her life. Because she can feel his love for her behind it, as well as the hot tears slipping soundlessly down his cheeks, and she wants to live in this moment forever. To always feel this intense appreciation and love. Y/N grips him by the front of his hoodie, her hands balling the fabric into fists on either arm to keep him firmly pressed against her. Though he's holding her as closely as he can it still feels like it would never be enough this way. She craves a more final closeness, she craves that feeling of their souls merging into one. She wants him to make love to her until her voice is hoarse from moaning and her muscles are loose and so tired that she can't stand up. She wants a permanent reminder of their love, a mark they will leave on the world. And if that reminder, the mark they leave on the world, will be a person they make together then so be it.

Still, he asks in the partial darkness of the bedroom, the fire's orange and red light painting their skin in its hues, "You're sure this is what you want?"

Partly, he asks it for his own sake and reassurance. Because every time he lets himself become excited and happy in thinking about this aspect of their future, his hopes are shot down by the idea that the kid will turn out like him; broken and, in his eyes, worthless. He blames himself for the death of his brother still, though he's healed some, nothing has been able to fully patch the void in him that that tremendous loss and grief had cleaved open. He ruined his friends' childhoods by asking them to help him in killing the creature that took his brother. In his eyes, he ruined everything. But that was never the case to anyone else.

To the rest of his friends, and to his lover sitting before him, he was a great leader and an essential person in their young lives. For him, they would have gone to the ends of the earth and he shouldn't blame himself for that. So, she understands the weight behind the question and all of the worry that lingers with it.

Her hands move up his shoulders to cup his face in them, the falling tears wetting her palms with every word, "I have never been so sure in my life."

The responding kiss is even better than the first. It's charged with electricity and sheer, undiluted longing this time. They hold one another desperately, their hands reaching and gripping for anything to seize and never let go off to keep them locked in this unending joy forever.

It only takes a half a minute of her clothed crotch grinding against his for him to already become hard. And he sees the surprise and amusement in her eyes when she looks at him, the brief glance between kisses saying I barely touched you. To which he responds to by ignoring the teasing look in her eye and proceeding to duck his attention to her neck, a distraction from how embarrassingly fast she'd managed to get him aroused.

"Bill," She mouths, the calling of his name only a light gasp on his end, the second his lips meet her neck.

The feeling of him taking her skin between his teeth and nipping, sucking hard; capillaries bursting beneath the surface of her skin. There's something he really likes about doing this to her. Not only because of how receptive she is to it, which he could attest to at this very moment due to her shaking breaths and soft whining, but because he loves seeing them. He likes leaving a tangible mark on her of his presence. To him, saying that out loud or even thinking it sounds dumb, but she's never once teased him for it. Bill is the kind of lover to want to endlessly take care of the person he's with. There are some nights that he spends ages with her, trying to only give and not take at all, and she has to take back some control and take care of him. Let him know how loved he is. There's no rush better for him than that of knowing he's satisfied her. He doesn't know why he's this way. Most people are the exact opposite, most people are on the receiving end or at least want to be. But he truly does genuinely love giving others happiness and pleasure, more specifically, to give her happiness and pleasure.

There's already a bright reddish purple bruise on the underside of her jaw by the time he moves further down, traveling across her skin inch by inch until his attention is fixed solely on her chest.

Already knowing where this torturously slow kiss is headed, she lifts his head by his chin and presses her lips to his. He opens his mouth to her without the slightest hesitation, his moan vibrating against her tongue. They continue on like this until they're close to bursting with anticipation and her hands begin to tug on the hem of his sweatshirt. The message is clear; off.

He shucks off the sweatshirt as quickly as he can since every second he's not somehow connected to her, whether it be by kissing or the much more gratifying alternative, they both get wound up in a storm of frustration and need. Thankfully for the both of them, they're already more undressed than they typically are thanks to the fact that they both sleep half naked; for him a sweatshirt and underwear. For her; a set of panties and one of the flannel shirts that doesn't fit him anymore. (If it were one that fits him nowadays, it is would be more like a dress because of his height.) It's still too much clothes for their liking.

They set a pace relative to both of their needs which, right now, are ridiculously high, but he still keeps her from pouncing on him, from speeding things up too far. When he's with her, most of the time he'll give into his own excitement and not waste time taking things slowly as he prefers. But he wants this to last, so he bites back on the urge to be hasty and instead nudges her onto her back with the same tenderness he's always had when making love to her. Ever since that first time, he's been this way. It's how he is as a partner. And it's not like she's going to complain.

The buttons of her-his-shirt come undone easily and he pushes the fabric away from her body, bringing the expanse of skin and gorgeous curves into light. Each side of the unbuttoned shirt slides over the rise and fall of her breasts as his hands chase it away, his palms warm on her hard nipples.

Bill leans down instantly and plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss to one of her breasts to replace where his hand had been gently caressing her. The feeling of his lips, teeth, and tongue all teasing her this way sends a shiver skittering along the length of her spine. He doesn't relent, in fact, her sounds and the familiar feeling of her body bending up against his in an effort to get more only encourages him. With his hands on either side of her waist, he kisses every accessible inch of her chest. The nature of this kind of worship makes her heart swell with love. Every beat that sends blood rushing from the center of her chest to the tips of her fingers echoes his name and she knows it in the deepest part of her soul that she is so willingly, so helplessly his.

The plump, swollen surface of his lips grazes down the valley between her breasts, the touch slow and barely a whisper on her skin. He continues down until he hits the raises stretch of skin, a scar stretching from hipbone to hipbone.

The scar worried her when it came to the idea of having kids. Since she was so young when it had happened, no one wondered if the trauma had somehow affected her fertility or ability to conceive. It became a gnawing, nail-biting worry as she grew up though. A few years ago she went to the doctor, out of curiosity and to at least give herself some closure on the topic until they decided they were ready to even consider trying for a baby. It's safe to say that it was a relief to find out that she could still easily conceive children.

Now, the scar has healed significantly, even since those couple years ago at the doctors' office, it has looked better and better.

He makes sure to give it, her most apparent insecurity, some attention as he moves south, a gentle press of his lips to the slightly raised line of skin a reassurance and a promise; to always remember and appreciate her sacrifices for him. He'd been the one to lead her down into the cistern where she'd gotten that scar. Whenever he sees it, he can't help but give a kiss to it. To at least acknowledge that sacrifice every time he sees the proof that it was made.

Y/N moans loudly when his hand goes between her thighs to rub her through the thin material of her underwear. She hadn't been expecting such a spike in the pleasure building in her gut that it hit her more intensely than it normally would have. It's almost surprising to him, even after all this time of being with her in this way, how wet she is for him.

With every slow press of the pad of his thumb against her clit, she wonders if this is payback for how she'd teased him yesterday morning, knowing that he's being a lot more mischievous with his own teasing today than he ever is.

"Bill, I-" Her voice cracks with frustration and her hips jerk toward where his touch halted on her, "Please."

The sound of her begging for him turns him even harder and his erection strains against his underwear. He'll oblige her soon enough but...he just wants to hear her say it one more time. And she knows this, she knows that if she asks, there isn't anything he wouldn't do for her.

This time she's the one who's choked up and stumbling over her words. Her back arches, body twisting to get some kind of satisfaction.

"Bill, I need you. Please," The last word comes out in a whisper, "Please."

He couldn't stop himself if he tried.

The tips of his fingers hook underneath her panties and tug them down eagerly, this facade of having patience wearing thin and being replaced by excitement. Instincts wins over in the end and before either of them can register their clothes being thrown across the room, he's buried in her to the hilt.

The rising tension that had been building inside of her, a dull ache needing to be attended to, is now explosive with gratification and all she feels is a body-wide wave of euphoria wash over her the second he's inside of her. Without any protection, without that layer between them, she can truly feel the heat of him pulsing and throbbing deep inside of her. Her mind goes hazy in reaction to this, to the overstimulation the ravages her body mercilessly and what he's doing to her. To how close she feels to him.

"Y-You okay?"

She hums in response and he watches her bite down on her lip hard, the adjustment to his size still something she has to go through every time they have sex. It isn't painful though, not as it had been the first time when she'd gotten tears in her eyes from the pain of him stretching her out. It's only a few, very brief seconds of discomfort before it starts to shift into something else entirely. He bites back a groan at the feeling of her, perfectly tight and wet, around him. It never ceases to turn them both into moaning messes, when they have sex together because there's something incredibly sexy in being so familiar with someone's body as they are with each other. They've been doing this for nine years now. If he wanted to he could get her to come in less than five minutes, his record is sixty seconds if he's giving head which is undoubtedly a Bill Denbrough specialty. So it isn't uncommon for her to have more than one climax with him, especially if it's on a night, unlike tonight, where they both have more patience.

Tonight though, they were practically jumping out of their skin with eagerness. She doesn't typically beg like she did today.

"F-Fuck," Bill murmurs into her mouth as he pulls out and then slowly buries himself back within her, every twitch and movement of their bodies amplified.

And, with a quick scrape of her fingernails on his biceps, he finally starts to make love to her like she'd begged him to.

Every time she meets eyes with him, the pleasure spikes up drastically, and so she holds his stare, their open mouths both brushing with every hard rut of his hips on her's. All she can feel is love for him. Nothing else in the world except for this unbreakable love matters to her, to him as well. Because even in the heat of such a moment she's aware of the heart beating in her chest for only him and so incredibly hyper-aware of him. Of his body on top of her's, the scent of him surrounding her, his lips on her, the feeling of him inside of her-he simply overwhelms her. She can see the pure love in his eyes and that is why she is rendered so weak in these moments. Because no one has ever loved her in such a way and she is sure that he is the love of her life, that no one else ever will love her in the same way ever again.

And for Bill, no one could measure up to the woman he's loved his entire life. How could anyone? After all, she's done for him what no one else has. She's looked into the darkest parts of him and stayed. She's seen him at his worst and his best and never once has her love faltered. And for that, he gives her all of himself, never once hesitating or hiding. He is her's from now until the day he dies.

He grips the back of her knee and hikes her leg up from where it had rested at her hips, his muscles burning with the constant movement of his thrusts and spreads her legs wider, seeking a spot inside of her that will make her see stars.

"I love you," She says, speaking loudly over the fire and the sound of skin hitting skin that they both find strangely hot.

The entire time he chases that perfect angle, the one he knows can make her instantly come every time, he hears her muttering those words like a prayer to him despite knowing that he'd stutter too much to be able to say it back. But he doesn't need to. Because with the way he looks at her and holds her and kisses her, his sun and stars, she knows.

Her orgasm comes out of left field for her, the first few thrusts after finding her sweet spot, that wonderful angle inside of her, was all it took to send her over the edge. She goes limp in his arms, simply unable to think let alone hold herself up, so he holds her against him as she rides out the intensity of her climax, her head tilting back against the mattress behind her and her mouth fixed open in a silent moan. Bill comes inside of her, every emotion and physical feeling compiled becoming too much to handle, without a warning.

The sensation of the sticky, hot liquid spilling out deep inside of her elicits a sharp gasp from the back of her throat at the shock of how it feels. They've always used birth control and condoms, just to be on the safe side, so it's something she wasn't remembering to expect to say the least. It isn't a bad feeling though, at the moment it happens it feels good, the warmth spreading inside of her. It was an unexpected pleasure.

For a long time, they stay silent, save for their heavy breaths, and he doesn't pull out of her right away but instead collapses on top of her the instant both of their orgasms have faded away. She doesn't rush him either in recovering since not only would that be rude on her part, but she herself needs to pull herself together again and bask in the greatness of a post-orgasm high. The stillness, a whole body and mind state of nirvana, gives her a sense of peacefulness she hasn't had in a while.

Bill's head rises and falls with her heaving breaths, his cheek resting in the dead center of her sweat-slick chest between her breasts.

He's the first to speak.

"I l-love you too."

The sound of those words brings her back from the almost meditative-like trance that what he'd made her feel sent her into and her eyes flick down to see him staring at her, his face clearly showing his exhaustion. It takes a few minutes to work up the nerve to speak for her.

She absentmindedly runs her fingers through his hair while she admits, "I can't wait to have a family with you, Bill. I know you don't think so, but you're the greatest person I know and if our kid is half as amazing as you, then I will be one hell of a proud mother."

The words stun him.

No one has ever said something so sweet and kind yet still honest to him before. He doesn't doubt her honesty for a second too, because he knows that she would never lie to him about something so serious. It's almost baffling to think that she means it when just today he was anxious that she wouldn't want to have his children simply out of worry that they'd be like him, broken and seem to ruin everything they touch. He couldn't have been more wrong.

For the rest of the night, they end up cuddling and talking after cleaning themselves off. It was a more extensive shower for her, but he stood there beside her under the cool water and pressed sweet kisses to her still heated skin the whole time so it wasn't too bad. And despite his exhaustion, ever the fussy boyfriend he's always been, he carries her back to the bed.

They fall asleep in each others' arms and when he wakes up in the morning, Bill can finally write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, I had no clue "sun and stars" was a Game of Thrones thing until I was editing, so I give George R. R. Martin full rights to sue me cause I'm a lazy bitch and didn't feel like writing that out of the fic


	5. Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N is pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one had me so emotional

It was an entirely normal day up until she found out she was pregnant.

Bill left in the morning for his part-time job, a job he leans on in between publishing and writing new books just in case, around seven o'clock as he always does on Fridays. He gave her a kiss on the cheek through her half-asleep half-awake coma and headed out. Soon enough all of the other Losers, with the exception of Ben since he is off on Friday mornings and heads in for an afternoon shift instead so he can sleep in, were out of the house. Her job isn't nearly as demanding as the rest of their's, the schedule more flexible and easier to work with, so she had the day to herself.

It was a blessing to have such an understanding husband. He told her, kindly and quite generously if she can say so herself, that with the money he's making from his books she could easily quit her job if she wanted to. And in a way, she understood why he offered this. A lot of people would jump at the chance to do that and be left to their own devices, even she cut back her hours for the hell of it, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted something to work for and to have a purpose, it keeps her going. So, she simply cut back her hours at the Veterinarian's office and decided to keep working though she greatly appreciated the kindness.

Instead of going in to the office, though her boredom told her to be productive and not lay around all day like she desired to, a voice in the back of her head told her not to. She was tired, since Thursday had been long and a dog she was giving a shot to at work did not like to cooperate and she and Bill have been having sex practically every day in their efforts to get pregnant.

Luckily for them, unlike some couples when they are trying for kids, the sex doesn't feel like a chore at this point. They already were having sex all the time, the only difference now is that she's off her contraceptive pills and they don't use protection anymore. The way they saw it is that; they're both young and have zero fertility problems so the moment they stop using their forms of birth control, she is bound to get pregnant.

They were right.

Y/N had become a bit of a hypochondriac with thinking she's pregnant. Anytime she felt sick or got heartburn or any common early pregnancy symptom, she went into their bathroom, peed on a stick, and waited. Eventually, meaning after the first few negative tests she'd taken in the span of two weeks, she'd calmed down and stopped doing it for her own sake. So it had been a few weeks since she'd even bothered doing it. Still, today something tugged at her and the raging nausea convinced her that it's time to check.

And that is how she ended up where she is, standing in the middle of the upstairs bathroom as she stares at the little blue plus sign in front of her. The word shock couldn't possibly cover the emotion that washes through her at this moment. Her heart thunders wildly in her chest at the idea that she is forced to wrap her head around so suddenly. They'd both decided that they wanted this with all of their hearts and they still do but nothing, not even the excitement of having a family with him, could have readied her for it becoming a reality. Maybe it's a reaction because of what you're conditioned to feel about becoming pregnant, but she is terrified. Through any happiness and excitement, a part of her is filled with unending fear. Worry, mostly of what giving birth will be like and of if she'll miscarry, also churns in the depths of her stomach.

In a way, she's frozen where she stands. A child, a human being, is going to be growing inside of her. It almost reminds her of the day they'd decided to start trying up in their cabin, when she'd been imagining the future and what it would be like to have a kid. Similarly to then, right now she can't help but see the months ahead of them in flashes in her mind. She can imagine the doctors appointments and back pain, the headaches and heartburn. At the same time, she can imagine the wonderful sides of it that she'll likely cherish her entire life. It's a terrifying yet joyful moment.

Her hands finally move from where they've been locked in position holding the pregnancy test for her eyes to be level with the plus sign just in case she'd seen it wrong and sets it down on the bathroom counter.

"People can get false positives," She mutters to herself, then proceeds to grab another one from the box beneath the sink.

As she's peeing and then waiting for the results once again, it's hard to believe that only two months ago they were on their vacation at the cabin and hadn't yet decided if they even wanted kids and today she's gotten a positive pregnancy test. And after a few minutes of waiting, that plus sign is back and rearing it's head at her.

It hits her hard and for a moment she stands still and picks apart the words in her head. I'm pregnant. It feels strange to be able to finally say it even if it's only in her mind.

Y/N carefully disposes of one of the boxes in a place no one will see it, the bottom of the kitchen's trash can, and saves the other to keep the actual tests in. By the time she's done and that small box filled with her biggest secret is stowed away in her closet, it still hasn't felt real. There's no telling how far along she is since birth control has made her periods irregular for years now and a missed one never made her too suspicious because of this. Yet still, she tries valiantly to remember exactly when she'd last had her period and fails. All she knows is that the farthest along she could be is two months at most, since that was when they'd first began trying.

Everything is different now that she knows. It's almost as if her reality has shifted and now she sees it all from a new angle. Currently, she can't even stand to be still. With every second she stays silent or unmoving she can't help but think of Bill and how much she wants to tell him.

In the silence of their bedroom, she tries out the words in a whisper, "I'm pregnant."

It feels much odder to say than she imagined it would. Because it doesn't feel real. It could easily be her denial, but it feels like a dream. No one but her knows and it's a secret still, even to the person who'd gotten her pregnant. Maybe after she tells him, it'll feel real. Maybe after she starts showing and tells her friends, it'll feel real. But right now the only thing that keeps her convinced that this isn't a dream she'll soon wake from is the irrefutable evidence stuffed into a sock in their closet.

How is she going to break the news? It's only been a half hour since she took the second test and questions are still going off in rapid-fire succession in the back of her mind. Should I do it over dinner or blurt it out? Should I even tell him or wait for the second trimester? What if I miscarry and-She can barely think straight. But not telling him-no matter the possibility of miscarriage-doesn't feel right. It's impossible to imagine lying to him for even a few minutes about it let alone weeks depending on how recently this happened.

It takes a few hours to figure out what she would even want to say to him.

-

The house is booming with activity by the time Bill arrives back after eight hours of getting coffee spilled on him and dealing with pissy customers at work.

Richie and Stan are watching TV in the living room while Beverly, Mike, and Eddie are making dinner that smells heavenly to him. But still, he doesn't see the person he hoped to on his way through the door and though he simply shakes his head, muttering that she may be busy or asleep, he wants to feel her arms around him after the long day he had. It has never felt so wonderful to be home. It had started with a man who screamed at him for making a single mistake, then proceeded to ask him if he knows how to do his job and it only got worse going on.

Eventually, the man mocked his stutter, since he started to get nervous and it got much worse than it usually does. After all the coffee he got on him, he's sure he'll permanently smell like the French Vanilla roast he'd spilled on himself after just brewing it. To say the least, being with his family is a blessing he's been waiting for all day. In the moments he, strongly, considered yelling back at that rude customer and the blistering pain of being splashed with hot coffee, he pictured her face. He blissfully kept in mind that in the hours to come, she'll be there and melt away all of the shit today had brought him.

But she isn't there unfortunately. Mike does listen for a short retelling of the day though, offering some comfort and support, which the rest of them end up overhearing and give him warm smiles of compassion. Family. His family, not by blood or by law, but family all the same. A band of outcasts, neglected and uncared for growing up, shunned by their peers when they were young, and forged anew in their adolescent horrors. A family that would never break apart.

"I t-t-think Y/N's upstairs, so I'm gonna go up and have a shower, then we might c-come downstairs," Bill offers though he knows he's not in a mood to do much of anything other than relax in his bed.

After what that man had spat at him earlier, every stutter feels like a blow to the gut. It's gotten better, his feelings for his stutter, since he's matured and grown thicker skin against the bullies that always seem to find him. Typically, he rolls his eyes at anyone childish enough to mock something like that yet today...it hurt. He already was feeling like crap and the last thing he needed was to hear a malicious taunt from a customer. It took many years for him to be comfortable speaking in front of people. When he was younger, he only talked with his family and friends, and only talked in school when he was forced to. The quiet was favorable to the embarrassment he felt in his stuttering. Now, it has changed. For one, he cares much less about what anybody thinks of his speech impediment, even if it sometimes manages to get to him, and with years of practice the stutter has gotten better. He doesn't have nearly as many issues with speaking publicly as he did years ago.

"You should at least put some padding on the headboard or buy a less squeaky mattress as a courtesy, I don't think you could possibly be louder," Richie yells after him as he ascends the steps.

"Fuck you, Rich," His voice grows quieter to their beloved Trashmouth as he gets to the upstairs hallway.

He wasn't even planning on that anyway. It would be nice, well-when is it ever unpleasant with her? But he's tired as hell and the last thing he was planning to do is have sex. For once, especially because of how exhausting the constant fucking has gotten to be for them both, he's not in the mood. All he wants is to fall into bed with her in his arms and go to sleep with her sweet kisses being placed across his face.

The bedroom door creaks when he turns the knob and pushes it open, his eyes scanning the room for her. She's laying down, reading a book, and is entirely captivated by whatever is written on the page. For a few short seconds he watches her there, oblivious to his presence, and appreciates the sight he had been waiting for all day. It's the cover of the book that really captures his attention though and his smile is wide in realization that she's begun to read the book he'd published just before they left for their vacation in January. It's flattering to see his wife enthralled by his writing. In all the time he's known her, she's been an avid reader and someone he's always been able to talk to about literature whether it be the reading or his writing. It never fails to catch him off guard; seeing her each time she reads a new book he publishes. Seeing her smile or laugh or cry. It makes him want to get on his knees and bow to her for being so kind to him and loving him so much. There's nothing that makes him as filled with joy as when she tells him she loves what he does, his art, his craft.

"What p-puh-part are you at? It looks like you're in the beginning from here," He says.

The sound of his voice and the sight of someone standing in the doorway makes her jump, a loud yelp filling the previously quiet room with sound, and shut the book. He can see the worry and fear quickly dissolve once she realizes who it is. Still, even if he cannot sense it, worry sluices over her.

Y/N sets the book down on the bedside table gently, then turns to face him. Instantly, her eyes widen with concern. You can see the tension in him if you look closely enough. It's easy to spot in the stiffness of his posture and how he clenches his jaw, not aware of how tense he is on his walk to the bed.

"I just got to the part where they're running from the cops..." A pause as her eyes scan him, "It's the beginning, I only started an hour ago."

The mattress shifts under his weight as he starts to lay down on it, his shoes already slipped off at the door, and exhale in relief at his body meeting the comfort of his bed.

Neither of them say a word for a few minutes. On his part, it's because he's tired and doesn't have much to say other than "I love you" and "Goodnight". He's not in a mood to talk about the day since with it comes the insecurity about his stuttering and what that awful customer had said about it. Knowing her, she'd want to track the person down and tear him to pieces for hurting the man she loves, so it isn't worth bothering for. It's over and done with and it would keep him from sleeping if they were to dwell on it.

For her though? Silence isn't nearly so simple. The silence she experiences is deafening with the voice in her own head arguing and shouting at her to speak. In the pit of her stomach she feels the urge to say those words, to get it over with, but every time she feels herself go to do it, they don't come out. There's a secret so wild hiding within her. A secret worse than any she's kept before baring the secret she shares with her seven best friends of the monster that hibernates in their hometown. How is she supposed to say something so life-changing? It doesn't matter that he'll be excited about it. None of that matters. It's still difficult to say out loud to herself let alone anyone else. The anxiety roils in her gut, the worst of it crescendoing as she opens her mouth to speak.

"I'm pregnant."

He visibly holds his breath, his chest stops moving for a moment in the midst of the bomb she dropped on him.

Bill processes the words rather quickly and it surprises him that he isn't shocked or frozen by them, but rather just roused from the edge of sleep in the time it took her to say the short sentence. His head lifts from where he'd laid it face-down into the pillow and his eyes meet her's, wide with surprise.

"What?"

It wasn't what he expected to hear when he got home.

She says again, softly, "I'm pregnant."

The swiftness with which he sits up and pulls her into a hug so tight it's nearly suffocating, surprises her this time. His arms are wrapped around her waist, the feeling of his muscles contracting against her sides making her breath hitch in the back of her throat, and he buries his face into her shoulder.

This was the news he needed today. Because now, the man who publicly humiliated him doesn't exist and any of his life's problems are blown away like dust in the wind because of what she's told him. His heart swells with happiness, love, longing, satisfaction, and everything in between. At this moment, there isn't a sad bone in his body.

He pulls back for a moment, his hands cradling either side of her face and brushing back her hair.

"This is real?" He asks, mostly to himself.

But she responds with a giddy laugh, "Yeah."

And he almost begins to cry while the pieces fall into place. After so many years of loving her and always knowing that he wanted this to be their future, it's here. Over the fabric of her t-shirt, his hands slide down from where they were holding her face. His touch makes her tremble and shut her eyes in appreciation as it finally stops at her abdomen.

It's rare to see Bill Denbrough smile. Very few people are honored enough to watch him when it does happen. Thankfully for her, it happens the most in her presence. Right now, his smile is bright and reaches his eyes, the corners of the shining blues crinkling with it, while he flattens his palms on her stomach. The warmth of him startles her. Actually, being with him at this moment, in general, startles her.

Never has she felt so close to someone. They had achieved a physical closeness much greater than this before, in the late hours of the night when she'd felt him inside of her; no barriers, a solid hard piece of flesh moving in and out of her, and the way it had felt when he had come in her for the first time. It was the closest she'd ever felt to him until now; his body hunched over and curved so his forehead is pressed to her breastbone as he intently watches her abdomen rise and fall with every one of her breaths. It's as if he thinks that if he looks closely enough, he'll be able to see the life inside of her that they created together. And that is why she feels so incredibly attached to him. Their little family is growing finally and they are both in awe of it. They are both beside themselves with happiness.

"I found out after you were gone this morning," She breaks the silence, "I got curious and took a test and when it was positive I didn't know what to do. It felt so overwhelming I-"

His head tilting back up to meet her gaze stops the words she was planning to say and instead prompt her to say new one's. The palms of his hands still rest on her, for now, small tummy while her's brush through strands of his soft auburn hair.

It takes a moment of being lost in the sight of him before she murmurs, "I love you."

And, gently, he returns the words back to her, his eyes shining with the feeling. Love. It feels, for both of them, like there's so much love in their hearts for someone that doesn't even exist yet and currently nowhere for it to go. So, they love each other with it and drown in the intensity of their emotions.  
They understand how rare what they have is, but only briefly. It comes to them in quick flashes of realization. The first time it ever happened to him being the last day of that weekend they'd spend together in the last year they spent in Derry, on the cusp of young adulthood and at what they didn't realize was the true start of their relationship. It was when she was sound asleep in his bed, so peacefully resting after the eventful night they had, while he walked around his room picking up whatever clothes they'd tossed aside or any mess they'd accumulated over the past few days. It's a distinct memory he has of sitting on his desk chair though, twisting it around to face the bed, and simply watching her. It may have seemed odd to anyone if they saw; to see him watch his girlfriend sleep. But to him, it was normal. Because he found her especially enchanting while asleep. There's a stillness and sense of calm to her that otherwise never could be found. And at that moment, he realized how lucky he was, how rare what they have is. The woman he fell in love with, who'd eventually become his wife and have his child, was his best friend since they were kids. She was the girl who stood by him in everything they did. She was brave in fighting the Losers' greatest enemy and she was brave in the aftermath, which was when they truly found how close they were.

After It, they were ruined and still, even as mere teenagers, they recognized what they had. In the long months where they had to heal from their encounter with the monster, they leaned on one another heavily.

Bill and Y/N had spent more time together in those last three months following the fight in the Cistern than they ever had before. It was a blessing in a way, being so broken since it shaped them into who they were meant to be and pushed them closer. Life is mostly a series of before and afters, chapter headings if you will, and this was an after. Before this, they had felt inklings of feeling for each other, but they were kids and both of them were far too shy to ever admit to something like that. After though? They were changed forever. There was something so incredibly binding in what they had gone through that started them down this path together and ever since then they've been together.

The day was like any other.

Except, as she thought and walked beside him, she couldn't help but want to turn around and kiss him, hug him, anything to satiate the love she had grown for him over the last three months. It was a quick first kiss in the end. A gentle press of her lips to his, a tentative one to test the waters and give him the chance to possibly reject her. Only he didn't and he pulled her back to him and kissed her again.

They were impossibly young when they got together and so, as he starts at her now, he cannot help but wonder how they lasted this long in the world they live in. Both of their parents did terrible things, whether it be to each other or their children, and ended up being unhappy later in life. So, with the relationships they had to look up to growing up, what they have together is a miracle.

What they've made together, he realizes while resting his hands right over where their child is growing inside of her, is a miracle. And he refuses to let what happened to him happen to his miracle.

-

The next week is filled with laziness and the laziest, most perfect kind of lovemaking either of them could imagine.

Y/N didn't think that getting pregnant would make her want him more. All she figured was that her morning sickness would ravage her and she'd be cranky, but Bill is doing a wonderful job of making all of that disappear. He took off work for as long as he possibly could without getting fired and she called out sick four days in a row until the weekend steadily approached in hopes of getting more time with him. As of late, they simply can't get enough of each other. It doesn't even have to be sexually, just emotionally; they're hungry for everything. They want all of each other and anything less is not nearly enough. He finds himself muttering "I love you" to her every few seconds, followed by the usual lingering kiss to her cheek while they watch movies in their room. Titanic had just come out on VHS and they watched it together, then made love with tears still stinging their eyes.

Today though, had been a little different.

Instead of sequestering themselves in their bedroom in the top corner of the house, far from the world and what it has to offer, they went out to run some errands. It wasn't too long of an outing. It consisted mostly of stocking up on what the house needed; paper towels, toilet paper, etc. He made her heart melt when he tossed in a bottle of prenatal vitamins, something she'd almost forgotten to get, and handed her a newborn-sized onesie. It had effectively turned her into an emotional pile of mush and made her pull him into a kiss.

-

It's the middle of the night, when all of the Losers other than the two of them are out, when Bill and Y/N get home.

The sound of their thudding steps on the hardwood floor reverberates through the upstairs hallway as they stumble to their room, bodies and tongues intertwined the entire way there. Every few feet, a new layer of their clothing lies discarded on the floor.

They had been driving for around for an hour to meet the best doctor they could in the specialty to run the necessary tests and an ultrasound on her, since they'd been so distracted with one another and the initial shock of the situation to book an appointment the entire first week after she took the test, and got lost. Eventually, they ended up in the office, squeezing each others' hands as tightly as possible, while they were told that everything seems to be doing great. It was an incredible relief, especially to Y/N, whose mind was going wild with the worry of everything going wrong; knowing that this is the most likely time of the pregnancy to miscarry. But nothing is amiss. The baby is healthy and strong as of right now, so they were told there isn't anything to be too worried about.

How they ended up here? That is something neither of them know.

Somewhere along the line between leaving and arriving home from the doctor's office, she'd dropped a hand onto his thigh which started an all out teasing war that ended with his hand slipping down the front of her leggings.

Even in the midst of their heated kiss now, the memory of it sends shivers skittering down her spine. At the feeling of his warm fingertips dipping beneath the fabric of her underwear as he held the steering wheel with his free hand, she warned him to pay attention, to which he nodded and hummed in response. But he didn't stop and it felt too amazing to refuse. And he had made her come right there, in the passenger's seat of the car on the highway. With every stifled sound of pleasure she let go, she felt the car accelerate slightly and his fingertips twitch against her.

The sound their lips smacking together is the only thing to break the silence of the vacant house, his hand fumbling for the door handle to their bedroom desperately and they end up nearly crashing into the floor with how much force she tugs him inside with. There's something churning in the pit of her abdomen, a desire with a mind of its own so overwhelmed by his presence and the need for him that she can barely think straight because of it. And poor Bill, he's been painfully hard since she'd begun teasing him in the car. She can feel as much when his hips nudge her's in response to her tugging him close, the feeling of him hard against her abdomen a fuel to the fire.

They stand, desperately making out and grabbing at each other, in the space of their room between the door and bed with no shirts and shoes, her leggings and underwear abandoned in the hallway while his jeans are still resting low on his hips. His lips are practically numb from the kissing.

"O-Off," He tears himself from her lips to yank at the straps of her bra, "Off, g-g-get it o-off."

If it weren't dark, she would see how intense the blush spreading across his cheeks is. No matter how long they stay together and how comfortable he is talking around her, he'll never get used to how bad his stutter gets when he is in these moments with her. Not seeing the embarrassment, Y/N giggles at his hastiness and unclasps the back of it and tosses the offending undergarment aside.

For a moment, even in the pure desperation to relieve the throbbing ache of his erection, he bends down as much as he can from where he stands tall over her to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to her breasts. And it almost makes her cry out in appreciation. It's too much to handle. Between how painstakingly slowly he had taken to pleasure her in the car like the tease he is and how long it took them to get back to the house, she is practically bursting with anticipation. So her hands find his belt buckle as he continues to torture her in such a blissful way and get to work at removing the last layers that cover that glorious body of his.

"Please," She whispers into his temple, pulling him to her by the waistband of his unbuttoned pants.

There's something about him that makes her unable to keep away-unable to wait a second longer to feel him inside of her, unable to wait at all for anything but all of him. His belt falls to the ground with a thud. The rest of his clothes follow suit quickly and he moves up to her lips in no time since he was brought back to the moment from her hand brushing the head of his dick; the pre-come that started to leak from him dripping on the pads of her fingertips from the concise touch. He doesn't even care as she grips him by the jaw, his own come getting in the ends of the hair on the base of his neck, and kisses and nudges him back onto their bed at last.

There's an audible gasp of relief that escapes them both the moment she straddles his lap, while their naked chests are brushing with every heavy, panting breath they take, and sinks down onto him. His mouth is open when it collides with her's, not even bothering with formalities this time and instead just going right for pushing his tongue into her mouth while she whimpers and adjusts to his size. Even after all this time, it takes a few seconds for her to get comfortable with the feeling of having him buried inside of her. It hurt almost unbearably for a good few minutes the first time they were ever intimate together, but over the years she's grown used to it. He's already warmed her up with his fingers, gotten her used to the width of three of them pumping inside of her in the car. Though it's nothing compared to having him inside of her like this; in a position that forces him in far deeper than they usually go, stretching her out around his length with a slight aching pain.

Once he makes the first movement though, his hands gripping her hips so hard there might be bruises left behind, they both gasp and moan and whine into each others' mouths helplessly.

Pleasure ripples through her in waves, the feel of his hands on her hips and fingernails digging into the soft skin of her lower back making it increase tenfold. All of it is almost too much already. Today, it seems that she's simply oversensitive to every movement he makes. His lips drift to her jaw as she slowly rocks against him-his every instinct urging him to chase her every time their bodies separate in any way.

Their friends could be home any minute, but they don't care. At the moment they aren't thinking of anything. Their minds are almost blank and the thoughts they do have are clouded by what they're feeling for each other. How he's making her feel...it's incomparable to anything she's felt before. He's the only partner she's ever had. He was her first and is likely to be her last in life, unless life has other plans for them. So, being with him is something that many would think would grow old or tiresome. To some, the idea of being with the same person for your whole life sounds like a death sentence but for her? With Bill? It's as close to heaven that they can get. Imagining a life without one another, without their love, without this, is torturous. And as he presses his kiss-swollen lips to her's, utterly overwhelmed by her, he knows that this is the way he wants to spend the rest of his life. It only confirms their actions in marrying each other, it only settles that soul-deep bond into place further and makes him wonder what he ever did to deserve this.

And in the midst of all of this, the feelings and the love and the prospect of getting to spend eternity with his only love, one particularly deep thrust makes her cry out and grip him tighter for support; she's nearly putty in his hands at this point.

His fingers card through her hair gently as he bites down on her lower lip, tugging back on it just to drive her wild.

Bill isn't far either, which she can tell clearly from how he mutters profanities under his breath and unleashes holy hell on her bare back with his fingernails digging into the skin. The pain of it, though it hurts and stings initially, is something she's come to grow quite fond of. And in the most tame of ways, she's a bit of a masochist when it comes to small things like this and has told him as much.

"Bill," She says like a prayer, the sound of his name falling from her lips pushing him violently toward his own end.

But he staves it off for her sake, so that she can reach it first and not be left unsatisfied. After all, she's a mess for him right now. Between her fervent kisses and more than occasional murmurs of "Yeah, right there, right there, please, Bill" it's not hard to tell how close she is. And he's not wrong, not at all, as she deeply kisses him and furrows her eyebrows, chasing her orgasm desperately.

Y/N goes boneless in his arms when it hits her, the high barreling through her recklessly in a matter of seconds. It's hard to not tug on the auburn locks she has fisted in her hands on the back of his head. Without realizing it, she does pull a little, sending him reeling as he meets his own climax at the surprise of having his hair pulled. It's grown out just a little longer than he usually lets it get and has been an object of her amazement for the last week or so. She likes when he lets his hair get a bit longer, thinks it suits him.

The feeling of warmth spreading inside of her brings her mind back from the gutter though and she watches as he shuts his eyes and his mouth opens in a gasp, his arms tightly wrapped around her torso to keep her against him. Bill holds her desperately and is too overcome with pleasure to even kiss back properly when their lips eventually meet for a final time. The only sound in the dark room is their heavy breathing and the soft sound of their lips parting.

After a few minutes of coming down from their highs and embracing each other, she says into his jaw, "That was intense..."

His fingertips trail her spine lazily and he blinks away the sleep from his eyes.

"Yeah," Bill hums, still entangled in her arms and his face still buried in her shoulder, "That w-wuh-was a good one. I came really h-hard."

"Sorry I pulled your hair. I didn't ask and I should have."

But he just shakes his head and says, "I liked it."

It's already apparent that she'll be quite sore in the morning when he pulls out of her; being as careful as he can be as he sets her down on the mattress, a tender kiss on the corner of her mouth a silent thank you.

He stays hovered over her for a moment and glances down at her abdomen.

"It'll be a lot more difficult to do this once you start getting bigger," A soft laugh, "We're p-probably gonna have to get really creative once tuh-towards the end of the pregnancy."

The way he says it, the light in his eyes, makes her wants to kiss him again. Pregnancy. It's just now starting to feel real. And it occurs to her how lucky they are, how many couples can't have kids and how many people aren't in the right place in their lives to have children even if they want them badly. They're lucky for it all. For their once in a lifetime kind of love and their friends-who they consider more family than those they're related to by blood.

His face is cradled between her hands when she says in disbelief, "We're having a baby."

He nods, the brightest smile crossing his face to the point where his eyes crinkle at the sides.

With all of her remaining strength, her head lifts from the bed to reach him and catch his lips in a kiss. It's more relaxed than the one's they shared earlier in the night that had been fueled by unrelenting desire and need. It's slow and gentle and everything they could want. When her head falls back on the undisturbed blankets and sheets, her voice says without a single waver or crack despite how she'd moaned until she could barely talk tonight, "I love you so much."

-

It's been getting harder to hide the pregnancy from the Losers.

It was a decision they made together the night they found out to not tell anyone until the second trimester. By the time the first trimester is over the possibility of miscarriage is a lot lower and that's when the doctor recommended them to tell people anyway. Which, luckily for them, just started. Based off of what the doctor had told them, she's fourteen weeks today and the first trimester is finally over. And it couldn't have come soon enough since she's having trouble hiding her baby bump. They hoped that maybe she'd start showing a little late to buy themselves time, but that wasn't the case at all. She's been practically living in sweatshirts and avoiding anything skin-tight at all costs.

"I officially can't button my jeans."

Y/N's frustrated voice catches his attention from across the room and makes him look up from where he'd been buttoning his shirt to get dressed for dinner with everyone tonight. For the last five minutes, she'd been trying her hardest to button the damned thing but couldn't. It felt like it happened out of nowhere, where one moment she only had a bump she could see without a shirt on and the next her pants have stopped fitting. Her head tilts back and she shuts her eyes, an exhale of sheer annoyance flooding out of her. Mood swings haven't been as prevalent yet, but she has been crying a lot more often at the most trivial of things. Last week she'd cried while watching Animal Planet because of a polar bear cub being separated from his mother. He couldn't help but laugh at the sight, which ended in her crying harder and asking him to "Stop being so mean, that poor cub lost its Mommy! What if our cub loses us? How would you feel, Bill?" He laughed so hard at her hysterics that he nearly cried.

"Wait, I've got a t-trick for that," He says and disappears into the bathroom.

Her face scrunches in confusion and mostly curiosity when he strides back into their bedroom, where she stands in front of the mirror, with a hair band in his hand.

The pregnancy truly has brought them closer together as a couple. Even before they decided to have a kid, they were undeniably close, but this brought them to a place they thought it would be impossible to get to with one another. There are pros and definitely cons of being pregnant; the morning sickness, heartburn, constant peeing, and more terrible shit that makes life feel like hell sometimes. Her favorite food now makes her sick to her stomach and it's horrible! But worth it. So, totally worth it because in the end all of that is temporary and what they're getting out of what sometimes is a horrible day or two, is a baby of their own. He's pretty good at calming her down, reminding her of the good, when she becomes frustrated or upset or is leaning over the toilet vomiting up last night's dinner. He's always there, gently holding back her hair and pressing tender kisses to her shoulder through it all. It'd be impossible to imagine not having him throughout this journey with everything he does to help. Sometimes she just watches him and knows he's going to be a great father; even if he isn't confident enough in himself to believe that.

Bill kneels on the floor in front of her, his eyes focused on the waistband of her jeans, and starts to loop an end of the hair tie into the hole where the button goes in the jeans, tying that into a knot, then sliding the other end of the band around the button.

"I learned it," He says as an answer to a question that was on the tip of her tongue, "when Mom was pregnant with G-G-Georgie. I was a such Mama's boy that I sat on her bed when she got ready for work every morning and was always h-hanging off of her all the time. She was a bit farther along than you are when she had to start doing this, but it happened every morning for five months straight so I'm pretty much a puh-pro."

For a second, she stops and has to look at him in awe. Not only is she shocked by what he did, but he just mentioned his mom and more importantly...Georgie. Rarely do either of those topics ever come up.

His family has always been a sensitive subject. After all, for most of his life, he's had to deal with the grief of losing his little brother and his parents' neglect. Who wouldn't be a little sore after so much childhood trauma? That doesn't mean they never talk about it though. Some nights, he'll wake up sobbing and thrashing in their bed and when she asks him what's wrong, he'll barely be able to stutter out his late brother's name. And then there's his parents. They aren't completely cut out of his life, but for the most part, he wants nothing to do with them. Every once in a while they'll come to visit, since he swears against ever setting foot in Derry ever again, but it's never happy or good. Never does he look forward to it because it brings him unhappiness to confront the people who wronged him. It almost made him wary of having a kid. The idea that he could mess them up as severely as his Mother and Father had him. But Bill Denbrough, he is not like them. No amount of loss would make him turn his back on his child and he knows this, not even having met them yet, that he would do anything for the baby growing inside of his wife. If anything, what they did could only help him at this point. Help him be a better father, a better husband, just a better person. The fact that he manages to speak to them at all is a miracle, the amount of love and compassion that they don't even realize it takes for him to not cry and scream at them for being so cold and neglectful to him is immeasurable.

Knowing this, Y/N gently asks, "Are you planning to tell them?"

"Are you planning to tell yours?"

That struck a bit hard though he hadn't meant for it to. It was a genuine curiosity of his. To know if he had to prepare to see the woman who broke his love so horribly and then let her be near his own flesh and blood. Rage, icy and unbound, flickers in the back of his mind. He has to stifle it to be able to unclench his fists.

"You first."

Her parents, unfortunately, are also a touchy subject that they've talked about numerous times. Long story short; there was a lot of infidelity, lying, and manipulation and the only one she still communicates with is her father. It'd be a lie to say the thought hadn't crosses her mind, but the idea of letting her baby close to her mother, to her wicked witch of a grandmother too, would hurt endlessly. Her jaw clenches at the simple idea of seeing their baby in either of their arms. Protect, defend. Already those maternal instincts are in high gear.

"M-Maybe. A part of me feels like I have to at least call them and then the other...I don't owe them that. Not after what they d-did, at least I don't want to owe them it," He says, the vulnerability in his words palpable.

Then, his eyes flick back up to her's expectantly.

"I'm going to tell my father and when I do I'll tell him to not tell Mom. They aren't together anymore, haven't been for years, so he'll respect that. And I'll let her know over the phone and let her know that I'll decide when she can come, if she can. It'll hurt her feelings, but she'll get over it."

To most, this coldness towards her mom would be alarming and, unwarranted, this kind of pure resentment should sound some alarms. But he understands. When she was fifteen years old, she was forced to grow up and turn into an adult much faster than any person should. That was the year she found out about her mother's lies and infidelity. That was the year she'd been suicidal and depressed and her mother did nothing to help. She practically aided it, asked her why she couldn't be normal. So, no, he doesn't feel a twinge of compassion for the person who did this to her. Not a single bit.

When they were younger, it was harder for him to be civil. Because he was who she talked to. He held her as she cried and listened to every word of it. The way he sees it, relationships either work one way or the other; you either tell them everything or nothing. You can't be half in, half out, at least in his book. That's why they're so close, why they have zero hesitation with one another. Before they were lovers, they were best friends.

He's heard it all; the lying bitch of a grandmother that turned her mom into who she was and the dad that tried with everything he had to save his child from the trauma of her actions. He wouldn't blame her for not letting her know, just as she wouldn't blame him for not letting either of his parents know.

And it occurs to her that he's still on his knees, his hands firmly wrapped around the backs of her legs. It turns her previously anger and sorrow-filled gaze soft with appreciation. With love. It's something primal, something instinct and animal, inside of her that enjoys seeing him like this. He teases her for it, but its true. Seeing someone physically on their knees in front of you, leaving themselves vulnerable and at your feet, is humbling and it fills her with so much love for him that she doesn't know what to do with herself. Only for her, would he make himself weak. It's still a wild concept to grasp; she can't wrap her head around the immensity with which he loves her.

"You're the most courageous person I've ever known," She says-and means it, "You have such a good heart and I-" A pause, "I think you're too hard on yourself. You blame yourself for what happened to Georgie and blame yourself for what happened to me, " He has to fight to not let his eyes drift to her exposed scar, "You're the best thing in my life and I think you should know that."

Had he been standing, his knees would have buckled.

-

The restaurant isn't a fancy or technically a nice one, it's kind of a hole in the wall dive, but the food is fantastic. It's a place they always jump at the chance to go to all together-if the stars align and they can all manage to get off from work on the same night. Tonight though, has been nerve-wracking to say the least.

They've been planning this for the past week.

Since it's safe to tell people about it now and they wouldn't be able to get away with hiding it much longer, they invited the Losers out to dinner for the sole purpose of telling them the news. It's practically been hell not being able to say a word about it with how excited they are. They didn't even tell them they were trying out of fear that maybe they would conceive and then miscarry or for some reason not be able to conceive children at all. Though it was wonderful to be able to keep it to themselves for the first few weeks of knowing and being able to cherish the alone time they got out of it. The only people other than the two of them who know are their bosses since they had to have some explanation for cutting back their time. She, however, unlike Bill who only works at the Coffee Shop to keep busy in between books, has had a harder time tearing herself away from her normal routine. For now, she's still working, but he's been practically begging her to take it easier than she has been.

Sometimes she has to remind herself that it isn't going to be as easy to go about her normal life as it was when she wasn't growing a human inside of her. Simple things like walking the dog the Losers adopted, a four-year-old Pit named Churchill, leaves her short of breath and tired. She figures that she'll only have so much time before she's huge and visibly pregnant to the point where he will baby her endlessly, so now is the best time to be as independent and active as possible.

"So to what do we owe such an occasion, Billiam?" Richie calls from the other side of the table, "We usually only drive out here for celebration."

Y/N tugs at the sleeve of her sweatshirt anxiously, dying to finally be rid of wearing these damned things everywhere in the middle of May. Hiding the bump has been getting increasingly more annoying and difficult to do. Beside her, Bill tenses slightly at the question and his grip on her hand tightens for a few seconds. Even though this was planned and they want to do it, it's nerve-wracking. The idea of telling people about their baby-makes everything feel a little more real.

Beneath the sweatshirt hides the growing bump anymore is a tighter, more form-fitting piece of clothing that accentuates it. She wears high waisted jeans, the one's that barely could fit around her body anymore, and a striped tank top that does not hide anything at all. The moment she takes it off, thanks to her being a person who happens to show a little more than others this early on, they'll notice.

"Well, there's kind of something we've been wanting to tell you..." She says carefully, her leg starting to bounce nervously.

Everyone's eyes are on her and it's a certain kind of freedom and excitement that runs through her when she speaks. The hand that's intertwined with Bill's tightens its grip.

Y/N smiles through the words, "If you hadn't noticed, I'm the only one not drinking anything tonight," a pause, "I'm pregnant."

The table explodes with shouts and suddenly she feels a billion arms wrapping around her. The Losers lose their fucking minds. None of them have started their families yet, some of them able to but choosing not to or some not yet able to, so having them be the first of the group to have kids is a big deal. Bev's smile still hasn't disappeared, and as she looks around the table once everyone has stopped hugging her, no one's smile has left their faces.

It's Stan who asks, his eyes bright, "This isn't some kind of prank is it?"

"No!" Bill exclaims, "I swear. Look, she's s-s-showing."

Y/N pulls on the hem of the sweatshirt and pulls the fabric off of her body, happy to be rid of it at long last. Perhaps she'll burn it. But when she stands up and moves out from the table, standing just in the walkway with her hand still in Bill's, is when they really lose it. They couldn't have picked a better time to reveal it. A week or two longer and they would've been able to tell through the bagginess of the hoodie. There wasn't much time left to where they could've gotten away with hiding the evidence. Plus, it's a Friday night and most of them have the weekend off so they can all spend it together and not have to hide a thing. Happiness, strong and unyielding, radiates from her.

"Holy shit!"

Beverly stands up first, practically tripping over herself to get to her.

"How far along are you?" Mike asks from the other side of the table.

With anyone else, so many questions and the feeling of Bev's hands on her belly would freak her out. But these people are family. And this kid is another addition to it. They're excited because not only are their friends having a kid, which makes them endlessly excited and happy for them, but they get to meet someone who is basically going to be a perfect combination of two of their favorite people in the world. That tends to be pretty exciting.

For almost all of their lives, they've been a couple. Growing up, they came as a packaged deal and it feels like centuries that they've been waiting for this moment. Everyone, including his parents, that he barely visits anymore, had been bugging him with questions about when they were to get married before they'd even been engaged so he can't imagine what everyone must feel now.

"Three months today, " Her gaze moves down to the slightly distended belly in front of her where now Bev and Richie are touching while Bill has a hand on the small of her back, "According to a book I read, the baby is about the size of a peach right now and is gonna be growing a shit ton soon."

"That's insane," Ben says.

For a while, Bill just watches her interact with them from where he sits beside her. The way her eyes a lighting up and everything about her just screams of joy and everything good in the world. It makes his eyes start to glaze over a little bit with tears.

Most of the night is spent with the Losers asking them tons of questions about the pregnancy-when they found out, how they found out, are they hoping for a boy or a girl, have you thought of any names, etc. All questions that made them realize they haven't done any actual preparing for this baby yet outside of going to doctors appointments and growing it inside of her. It made them realize that they don't have a spare room in the house for a nursery or that they haven't even talked about names. It was a reality check in a way, something to make them remember that the seven months they have left will go by very quickly.

For the nursery at least, they'll have time to work it out because they know that for six months it'll be sleeping in a bassinet beside their bed. But what of everything else?

On the drive home, these thoughts and the stress ruminate in the back of his mind while she sleeps with her head on his shoulder in the backseat of Mike's car.

-

They've both been anticipating this day for weeks now.

And to avoid the inescapable excitement and anxiousness to finally get to today, they've been getting to work on things they've been needing to do; going to a class on birthing, buying various things they've been meaning to buy for their baby like the bassinet, clothes, teethers, swaddles, baby bottles, and tons of other things that are cluttering up their rooms endlessly. Going shopping for all of the baby gear has been one of their favorite parts of the pregnancy so far. It's wild for the both of them to look down aisles and aisles of baby clothes, supplies, formula, all of the things they could possibly need and realize that their reality will soon be changed forever with the presence of their child. There's a corner of their room dedicated to their unborn baby. They moved all of the clothes in their dresser into the closet, which was a tight fit that they thankfully managed to do, to turn the dresser into a space for diaper changing and storage for all of the baby clothes and supplies. Beside the dresser/diaper changing station is a rocking chair that Ben and Bill found in the basement left by the last owner that they found last week. Lastly, the bassinet is tucked into the corner of the room on the other side of the dresser. Those are all of the changes they've made to their bedroom, effectively turning half of their room into a nursery while the other half is left for them.

Bill has been up for a long while before she even began to stir in her spot in their bed. He was barely able to sleep last night from how excited he was about their doctor's appointment today. They've been bouncing back and forth their name ideas, not finding 'the one" yet but still enjoying the process. Today is the day they find out the baby's gender. To them, it feels as if this pregnancy has been flying past like nothing. As if they blinked, and suddenly she's five months along and halfway to the end. If she thought she was getting big back when she told their friends, she was in for a rude awakening. Now her belly button pops out and is visible through the shirts and dresses she wears due to the big belly she's grown. It's been impossible to imagine getting even bigger, despite knowing that she'll be properly huge in the third trimester.

There are things people tell you about being pregnant and then there's your pregnancy and hers has been smooth-sailing with the exception of her horrible morning sickness and food-aversions in the first trimester. They have yet to feel any kicking, though they did hear the heartbeat at their second ultrasound, which was absolutely surreal. He swears he felt his heart stop when they'd heard it, all of their friends standing beside them in the room as the ultrasound technician tried to find it. The energy in the room had shifted from joking and sarcastic from the banter Richie managed to strike up with the staff and them, as she was getting cold jelly rubbed all over her, at the time, small bump by a stranger. But once that steady, lulling heartbeat reached their ears, everyone shut up and suddenly the jokes and jabs at one another turned to dust and all they could do is stare at the monitor in amazement.

Everything from then on out has been just as crazy to them. Any slight change in her symptoms, or knowing if the baby has grown more. They'd practically lost their minds when they figured out the baby is able to hear their voices at week sixteen. Bill isn't ashamed to admit that he's spent hours lying beside her protruding belly recently, talking to their unborn child. And seeing this, the absolute love he treats them with even though they aren't even here yet, made her break down into tears. Anything remotely adorable like seeing him talk to their baby or simply looking through the clothes and items they've bought it can make her cry. This entire ordeal has made her quite emotional.

Yet right now, she isn't crying or laughing or looking through what they've recently bought, she's sleeping while he gets dressed for their morning appointment. They wanted the earliest one possible this week since they're on the edge of their seats about finding out if the little one on the way is a boy or girl.

Bill's hand gently grips her by the shoulder, shaking her awake at the time she asked him to. If there's anything great that this experience has done; it's made her feel more comfortable in her own skin. Though she didn't wear makeup at all before, when month three started before they even told anyone, she'd stopped wearing it. Pretty much what this has done for her is show her that owning her body and face as it comes naturally can be just as fun as experimenting with makeup and cool clothes if she pleases to. There's something very freeing to her in waking up and throwing on whatever is there, only stopping on the way out the door to run a brush through her bedhead.

"Y/N," His voice runs along her skin like ribbons of smooth silk, "You've gotta get up, we have an ap-p-pointment at nine."

A soft groan falls from her open lips in place of the soft snores he'd been hearing all morning and her eyes barely crack open enough to get a good look at her husband-his eyes fixed on her half-asleep form and his hand brushing through her hair comfortingly.

It's certainly not nine in the morning yet. It's seven-thirty, since they planned last night to go to a Café near the doctor's office they went to months ago at their last visit. This will give them enough time to drive and eat breakfast before going in.

"Good morning," Y/N says through a yawn and blinks away the sleep in her eyes, "M'still a bit tired. I couldn't really sleep well last night. I think little one was moving around a lot in there."

Her hand rests on the top of her bump, rubbing it as if that'd get the baby to stop squirming around all the time and making its Mom incredibly uncomfortable. Pretty much everyone has gotten accustomed to calling it "little one" since, until two hours from now, they don't know the gender and thus don't have a name picked out.

"Mmm," He hums in response, then says, "Even if it sucks, you s-should enjoy it while you can. You're gonna miss this one day..."

Her eyes flutter down to look at where his hands rest on top of her's on the middle of her stomach. Then she speaks.

"I won't never feel this way again. How else are they going to be a big brother or sister?"

Bill looks at her, surprised, and asks, "You want to have more than one?"

She nods, as if it were obvious.

"Of course. I mean, right now I want to focus on what we're dealing with currently. Which is, the little boy or girl growing inside of me right now. But eventually, maybe after this one is a year or two old, I wouldn't be against another one," Y/N says, "Do you want another after this?"

And for a second, he almost feels his chest concave and everything inside of him feels light. How could he have ever worried all those months ago, back when they hadn't even spoken about having a family together, that she wouldn't want to have his kids out of some twisted fear that they'd end up as messed up as he is? How had that ever been a thought in his mind when the person who lays before him is so unflinching with their love for him? Never has someone given him a kind of love and appreciation as unconditional as the one she gives him. He was so worried that she'd realize the mistake she'd made in picking him and now here she is saying she wants to have more kids after this one. It is now that he realizes how wrong he'd been. There isn't a person in the world she'd rather spend the rest of her life with and have her children with. And he can feel that, the reassurance radiating from her and the honesty in what she says. Insecurity had blinded him, put him through unnecessary pain.

He crawls up the bed to be closer to her and hovers over her as much as he can with the belly getting in the way. His hands cup either side of her face.

"Of course I'd wanna have more kids with you. Y-Yuh-You're the love of my life, I can't imagine wanting to stop here."

The words make her emotional, her eyes instantly watery between the actual effect what he said has on her and the surging hormones pumping through her constantly. She lifts her head off the pillow to kiss him. They stay locked in the sweet kiss for a few moments and she debates pushing it further, perhaps making them late for the appointment. But decides against it.

Pregnancy, despite the second trimester being better than the first, makes sex a lot less appealing with all of the symptoms and sickness. There's plenty of time for that after the baby is born. A lot of their time will be consumed by their newborn, but knowing them? They'll probably take any chance they can get.

It only takes her ten minutes to get dressed and out the door, as expected, to be on their way to breakfast. The drive isn't bad at all thankfully, just over fifteen minutes if they don't make any stops.

The Café is relatively full when they get there and order, and for the first time out of all the time she's been pregnant, she can tell that everyone notices. It feels as if everyone's eyes are locked onto her as she walks by and all of that attention makes her uncomfortable. It's not like she hasn't gotten used to people looking down at her stomach before moving up to her face. When she's at work and takes care of people's pets, sometimes they'll blatantly stare and other times it'll be a more well hidden glance or the timid question. It's flatters her for the most part, but she isn't used to it.

For most of the half hour they spend here eating breakfast and talking quietly amongst themselves, she stays cuddled into his side, her head on his shoulder. It's a moment that she can imagine a year from now with their baby in their arms, all of them happy and smiling. It's hard to not want to be over with it already so that they have their child in their arms.

-

The doctor's office is a place or excitement and worry for Y/N as of late.

It's a place where everything can go absolutely haywire in a matter of minutes or where she'll be told everything is smooth-sailing. The only way she can make herself calm down from the brink of an anxiety attack during the waiting process-her leg bouncing and heart-rate jacked-is to remind herself that if there was anything severely wrong with the baby, they would have detected it by now. The other way, is Bill. Looking at him, touching him, anything that has to do with being close to him comforts her and distracts her from the noisiness of those unavoidable thoughts. In the waiting room, she was practically clinging onto him like a leech and even slung her legs across his lap-not that he minded any of it.

She can't see her feet past her belly now, laying on her back on an examination table with her shirt pulled up to nearly expose her bra and ultrasound gel spread across her skin by a woman who looks to be a good twenty years her senior. Already, they've done a number of things to her and it seems that everything is as it should be regarding her blood tests, urine screening, and weight gain. Bill and the ultrasound technician in the room-Elis-could almost see the weight lifting off of her shoulders when they told her the pregnancy is still on the track it should be on.

And something inside of him, had they not been in the company of someone else, wanted to pull her in and just hold her at that. To keep her wrapped up in his arms and reassure her, even tease her and say, 'See, I told you you're already f-fuh-fussy Mom.' Yet otherwise, he felt a strange sexual want for her at that relief he saw in her eyes. It's odd, but the pregnancy has sent him-and sometimes her, when she isn't wanting to throw up or curl into a ball of mushy emotion-into a frenzy, only they barely have the time for it and it's getting increasingly more difficult with how big she's gotten. Despite the frenzy of desire, they haven't had sex in a few weeks now which, for them, is an eternity. Now that he thinks of it, it's a wonder that she hadn't gotten pregnant before, birth control and all.

His hand is warm in her's, gripping tightly to one another for support in anticipation of what they've been looking forward to for weeks now.

"So," Elis starts, holding the doppler against the spot where they found the most clear picture, "Would you like to know the baby's gender or is it a surprise?"

He had thought about it for a little while, wondering which is better: a surprise or knowing what the future holds. When he had asked her if she would want it to be a surprise, even though he wanted to know, she told him that they've lived through enough surprises to last a lifetime and that this-their baby-is something she wants to be in the know with every step of the way. He's thought about how it'd feel for both sides-knowing that no matter the sex of the child he's going to spoil them rotten and love them with everything he's got. But he's found that he quite likes the idea of raising a little girl. In his experience, girls mentally mature quicker than boys and every woman he's befriended or loved-whether it be family, a friend like Bev, or the love of his life laying beside him-has been more kind and understanding than the men in his life. It's a stereotype, he'll admit that to himself, but in his life it's been almost always true. And he can't help but wonder what it'll be like, how fun it will be for him to learn how to braid her hair or finding out if she's more traditionally "girl-like" or is much like her Mother was and hangs with the boys in her school.

Part of the reason why a boy makes him more nervous is Georgie.

Logically speaking, it shouldn't bother him. His unborn child, whether it's female or male, technically has nothing to do with his dead little brother. But, emotionally, it would have everything to do with him. Since they were obviously brothers, there's a possibility his son would look a lot like Georgie as much as it would look a lot like him and that in itself terrifies him. He only prays that he gets his mom's striking features or at least his red hair rather than anything that resembles the sandy-brown colored locks that haunt him at night. The head of hair he watched disappear into a downpour of heavy rain and fog, never to return again. To this day, whenever he sees someone with the same kind of hair color, he's left with a bad taste in his mouth.

It's less of a fear about his possible son or his dead brother and more of a fear of himself. Of what he could do. Of how badly he could screw up his child if they feel like he resents them for being born a boy or resembling someone who died years ago-someone he should be done mourning by now. He doesn't want him to feel like a replacement either, for a person that doesn't even exist anymore. There's an endless amount of terrifying possibilities when it comes to having a boy. All because of a rainy day and a paper boat. All because he was too sick to look after him. All because of the monster that still hibernates in Derry, Maine to this day.

A boy would be an emotional challenge he's been fighting within himself for years.

Y/N squeezes his hand and says, "We decided on finding out now."

A girl would be just as difficult-barring some emotional baggage. But he still worries. Despite gender or whoever they end up being, about them somehow succumbing to the same fate their parents faced at a young age. It'll be his life's duty to always keep them from ever stepping foot into Maine as long as he's still here.

He has to remind himself that raising a child will be difficult either way and while facing the death of Georgie is something he may have to do, that's something he has to do whenever it rains or sees a young kid play in the rain anyway. It's hard sometimes-to see the light when so much of his life has been clouded by storm clouds. For years now, she's been his light; his sun and stars and so he cannot fathom how it'll feel when the day comes that his child will be alive-his own flesh and blood, a tangible being that exists only because two fourteen-year-old kids fell in love thirteen years ago-and in his arms.

The woman looks carefully at the monitor to their right, opposite to where he sits, and smiles softly; the secret only her's to hold for a mere two seconds before she's to tell them.

Elis turns her gaze to them, her smile a little wider, and says, "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough, you're going to be having a healthy baby boy."

-

Mike ended up being the first person, other than Y/N, to feel the baby kick. He was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast when she came hobbling down the stairs as fast as she could without risking tripping over her feet-that she can't see past her own stomach by the way-or falling down the stairs. He was so worried about why she'd been going down the stairs at a pace fast enough to send Bill into cardiac arrest rather than what she'd been talking about so happily. But after he calmed down and told her in the kindest way possible that hurrying down the stairs when you have an almost full-term baby inside of you is an idiotic thing to do, she grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand against her bump.

The house is alive with activity today, hours later from this morning when her and Mike spent at least a half hour excitedly talking about the eventful upcoming last month they have, and she sits in directly the middle of it.

These are some of her favorite kinds of nights.

Contrary to when she was younger, having dinner and spending hours with her family are times she always looks upon as precious. The thought of those sour childhood memories makes her stop smiling for a moment. Even before finding out all she did about her mother and her manipulative grandmother, there was a sense she had as a child that something was off. That when she was dragged to her grandma's house an hour away from Derry, she was being thrown to the wolves.

The sound of the front door being unlocked by the last loser getting home from work tonight pushes all of those negative memories away.

His pale face is flushed red from the late October chill when he steps inside and immediately takes off his baseball cap with the coffee house's logo on it, opting to hang it on the coat rack beside the door.

Things have been both chaotic and calm lately. They're only a few weeks away from her due date and she's gotten so big he's needed to help her get dressed some days. It's always so adorable to her; the gentleness with which he treats her these days. It had been easier to get him to stop fussing over her earlier in the pregnancy, but now that she's nearly nine months along and looks like she's ready to pop, it's inevitable. He typically isn't at work. As it is, he only works a few days a week since his job as a barista isn't his only job and the due date is steadily approaching, which means those few days a week will dwindle to none. She has stopped working all together-she stopped early in the third trimester-and is left to her own devices. This means that most of the time, they do whatever the hell they want. It's a certain kind of freedom they aren't used to. He's been taking a break from writing his next book for the sake of their baby. He knew from the start that that's what he'd be doing, when they first began trying to conceive he planned out everything in his head-the finances, when he'd probably begin working on his books again, and so on.

"Bill!"

Richie shouts at him from the living room, where he and the other losers are congregated to eat take out and chill together. He's always been quite close with their trashmouthed friend. Out of everyone, he was the first to pick up on his relationship with Y/N and the first to support it, not that any of them were against it. And whenever his mask of their perpetual class clown broke down, he displayed a kind of deeper understanding of who Bill was. Perhaps if he hadn't fallen so deeply in love with her, if life were to rob him of such a blessing, he would have gone after Richie as a teenager. Or at least been closer with him.

They all turn their heads to look at the exhausted friend of their's walking into the living room.

He goes instantly for Y/N, who's sitting on the couch with sympathetic eyes and open, loving arms. Today hadn't been too wonderful. A difficult customer happened to fluster him enough to evoke his stutter to the point where he could barely speak. The shift manager let him take his break outside to breathe in some fresh air and calm down after the man left. It would have been useless to have him stay in anyway, he was on register and taking people's orders when his stutter is as bad as it was then is not a good idea.

It got him thinking...

The rest of them relax a little at the sight of seeing him snuggling up against her. It never feels quite the same when any of them are missing.

"Long day?" She murmurs.

He pulls her legs over his lap and carefully brings her closer. He fiddles with her hand absentmindedly before interlocking it with his own.

"Yeah."

It would be very easy to open up to his closest friends about the insecurity today brought. But a part of it isn't just about himself, yet about his unborn son. About the possibility of this insecurity affecting him as he grows up. There seem to be a plethora of things on his mind as the due date grows closer. Anxiety ravages him whole and he can't help but be on edge every day over the prospect of calling his parents to tell them. Y/N already told her father...but he just can't. Sometimes, he'll dial the number and try to call, but he can't do it.

Her thumb rubs comforting circles on the back of his hand, eyes wide with concern for her husband.

"So, are you gonna tell him about today?" Mike asks, pulling them out of the moment.

Bill perks up at this. And instantly she knows he assumed the worst and that sirens are going off in his mind.

"Nothing bad," She reassures him with a small smile, "He started kicking like crazy today."

The news pushes all of those bad thoughts to the backburner. He's careful with her as he sits up straighter and glances back and forth between her protruding belly and bright eyes. The Losers are all smiling so hard at the sight of them together. It's been wonderful to see them stick together throughout everything, even though the turbulence they endured in adolescence and early adulthood. Most young couples never stay together this long, let alone be as happy together as they've been all these years.

Eddie, from where he sits on the other side of her, says, "He's been kicking all afternoon too. It's fucking crazy, isn't it?"

"Here, if you talk to him he'll probably keep doing it."

Her voice is soft and gentle, the melodic sound of it running along his skin like a phantom breeze, the feeling of her hand gripping his just as lovely. She flattens his hand against her huge stomach and keeps her smaller one on top of it. Her skin is so warm it jumps through her shirt at him.

He moves his eyes down to where she holds his palm against her body. It's wild to think that a human being, his own son, is alive inside of her.

"H-Hey," He murmurs awkwardly and tries to not think about how odd the situation feels in front of all of his friends, not that they care, "It's your dad..."

Everyone in the room could care less about the possible feelings of awkwardness in the situation and instead, every single one of them, feel their hearts melt at the sight of it. Even Richie doesn't dare make a joke to interrupt it.

The couch creaks as he shifts in his spot and pulls his other hand up from his pocket to press against her.

Nothing yet.

"I can't wait to meet you, you're going to get so much love from your p-puh-parents..." A glance in Richie's direction, "Let's just hope Uncle Richie doesn't corrupt you too soon."

The room erupts with laughter.

"Oh, fucking, please. If anyone's gonna corrupt him it'll be you. You're just as bad as me," The trashmouth scoffs and takes a sip from his glass.

Bill says through a soft chuckle, "S-Shut the fuck up, asshole. Don't curse in front of my son."

Beverly is shaking her head and rolling her eyes at their banter while he just goes back to what he was doing.

There's a small movement in her that only she can feel and it makes her breath hitch slightly.

"I already love you so much, more than you'll ever know."

And when he feels something hit against the palm of his hand, there is nothing he can do to stop the emotion that rushes through him. Love, shock, happiness. All of it is so intense that it almost drives him to tears on the spot.

Bill lets out a happy sigh and stares up at his love; wonder dances in those baby blue eyes. It renders her weak the second their gaze meets, it always does. The baby kicks against his hand once more.

"Holy s-shit..."

It's a moment so precious, so sweet and tender, that none of them want to speak as to not spoil the sacred feeling of it all.

It almost makes the bad of today go away permanently. But it lingers still in the back of his mind and all he can do to get away from it is focus on the now, on the wonder that is his child kicking against his hand right now. He never expected his life to turn out as amazing as it had. Maybe as a young child, he pictured himself having a family and happiness like he has now, but after all of the trauma he experienced he never expected a life this happy. He hadn't expected a love half as powerful and passionate as what he's gotten. Happiness like what he's feeling now worries him. It makes him want to brace for the bad that he inevitably expects to follow it.

Ben asks from where he is sitting on the arm of Richie's chair, "Have you guys picked out a name for him yet?"

Well, that certainly pulled him out of his thoughts, happy or sad.

He immediately moves to sit beside her as he had been before, pulling her legs back into his lap and then resting his hands back on her belly. It's hard for her to not shut her eyes at the sweet feeling on him gently massaging her abdomen as he thinks.

They agreed on a name a month after the appointment when they were told they were having a boy. They also agreed, however, to not tell anyone. It felt right to have one last thing to be only their's since everyone knew about the pregnancy and the gender and everything else. It felt right that the name could be their little secret. It was difficult to not say the name while he was talking to the baby a moment ago, he had to remind himself to not slip up. Only when they're in the privacy of their room do they say it or talk about it. It makes her smile.

"Yeah, we picked one a while ago. But we want it to be a surprise when he's born," Y/N says.

They spend a good ten minutes giggling as their friends groan and try to guess at what they picked to name him, not even coming close with each guess they make. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't escape his fears.

-

Her panicked scream echoes through the house on the first Monday of November and everyone downstairs. It wasn't that it hurt or that she wasn't expecting her water to break any minute now, but that she was so shocked when it happened she didn't know what to do other than yell for him.

"Bill!"

It wasn't like she'd always seen it in the movies. A sudden gush of fluid that stops flowing after a few seconds and a quick trip to the hospital without contractions. She's already been experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions for the past two months and actual contractions for a few days now, documenting how far apart they are in a little notebook she bought months ago to document the pregnancy. They've been getting increasingly painful, but it wasn't anything she didn't know how to deal with. Once they'd been eating at a restaurant and she got a particularly painful contraction that had her doubled over in his lap. His hand rubbed at her lower back as his eyebrows furrowed; frustrated that he couldn't make her pain go away. Today, the contractions had gotten increasingly worse and longer, but they knew it wasn't time to go to the hospital yet.

She was cleaning up around the room and dancing to a CD they bought yesterday when she felt something wet the fabric of her leggings.

Bill and Beverly both look up from where they were making breakfast in the kitchen to the ceiling. He's running to the stairs in a matter of seconds. With every small hiccup and speed-bump they hit, he can't help but expect tragedy. Much like how she'd been at the start of the pregnancy, he worries about losing the baby everytime anything remotely out of the ordinary happens. Hearing her shout for him is probably the worst possible thing that could have happened at this point.

His steps are swift as he makes his way to their room, not even noticing that Bev followed closely behind him.

"What happened?"

The words are rushed and loud. She shakes her head at the worry in his face, standing up from the bed to walk to him. They meet halfway.

"I'm pretty sure my water broke," Y/N says and looses a tired breath, "What should we do?"

Her heart is pounding so hard she can hear its beating in her ears. It feels surreal to realize that it actually happened and that they're so close to having a baby. She doesn't feel like she's about to be in labor. It doesn't feel real.

His hands are soft on her skin as he holds her by her arms and pulls her closer.

"How far apart are y-your contractions?"

She has to think for a moment, "Six minutes I think? I mean, we can wait, but we should call."

That's all he needs to hear to be ready to get in the car and drive to their doctor. But for a few seconds, everything stops and it sinks in; they're having a child. It's a few months shy of a year since they were up at the cabin and decided they wanted this. It's been nearly a year and they both still remember that day like it was yesterday. At one point last year, he wasn't a possibility and now? He's going to be here in the next day or so.

She calls to let the doctor know her water broke and she tells them immediately to come in, saying that though her contractions aren't super close together yet and though she isn't close to being fully dilated, they should come in to be safe.

"Bev, would you mind getting the hospital bag from the closet? It's a navy blue backpack."

Beverly nods and turns to get it. Meanwhile, they start to go down the stairs. As usual, he's fussing over her and won't let go the entire way down the staircase. She tells him she's fine, which he responds to by letting his grip on her go lighter, but doesn't let go.

-

The sidewalk outside of the hospital is empty as he dials his mom's phone number with shaking fingers and, after a moment, presses the call button.

A leap of faith. Hoping for the last time, that they won't turn away and ignore their only child left.

When he hears her pick up from the other end, he simply has to let it out. And so he does, he tells her, and he prays that she won't continue to disappoint him as she and his father have his entire life.

-

The hospital room looks just as it had the last time they were here.

Months ago, they planned where they would be going with their doctor and had a birth plan laid out despite knowing that no matter their plans anything could happen. It's hard to keep a clear mind amidst all that's happening, but she knows that staying calm is the best thing for a smooth-sailing labor. Stressing out would only make things worse for both her and their baby boy.

She's standing currently, her hands braced on the edge of the bed as her hands clench the sheets into fists, in the middle of a painful contraction. He can almost feel the pain secondhand just from watching her breathe deeply and clench her teeth through the worst of it. Before Bev had to leave for work, she had asked her what it felt like, and he swears he saw the fire of hell in her eyes when she said, "It feels like period cramps on steroids, and like I'm being stabbed over and over."

Y/N yelps into the hand she's holding over her own mouth and the sound makes his body jump forward involuntarily from where he's sitting on the window sill behind her. He can't stand seeing her in such constant, horrible pain. The sound she let out made his heart practically cleave in two. He'd give anything to make it go away. The only thing that keeps him calm is the fact that he knows he has to stay relaxed for her, so that she won't see him freaking out and proceed to freak out as well. It also helps to remember that it'll end in less than a minute.

"Bill?" Her voice is so meek and tired already that it makes him have to fight off a frown.

He takes a few steps until he's standing behind where she's bending over the hospital bed.

"W-What do you need?"

The advice he'd gotten from both the doctor and doula was to be as supportive as possible. Every woman is different when they're in the throes of labor, they said, and as loving towards you as she may typically be, the pain and stress can make her irritable as hell. They told him to be as helpful as possible, remind her to go pee once an hour so her bladder won't hold the baby's head up, make sure she's hydrated, basically just take care of her the best he can while she endures what may be the worst pain of her life. He doesn't mind it. She even joked when they were being told this that it's his dream to be allowed to fuss over her as much as he'd like. He responded by rolling his eyes, but knew it was true.

The tension in her is palpable now that they're so close to one another.

"Can you hold me?" Y/N asks.

And he almost crumbles at the way she said it, sounding like his touch is the cure this torture, like it would be the best thing in the world to have his arms wrap around her. It's true too. There's nothing she wants more, with the exception of having all of the pain magically go away.

"Of course..." He runs a hand along the length of her spine, "If your back still hurts I can give you a massage."

"Really?"

It wouldn't be surprising if that offer made her break down into tears. Earlier, he told her he loved her and she almost wept.

In answer he leans over from behind her and presses a lingering kiss to the base of her neck just above the neckline of the tank top she cut short to keep her stomach exposed for the duration of labor. It was either that or stay frustrated in having to pull up her shirt for the fetal heart monitor all day, so she butchered an old tank so that it cuts off just beneath her breasts. She also opted for a new pair of underwear that wasn't soiled from her water breaking this morning. Sometimes he has to remind her to put a robe on when she goes walking in the hallway since the pain and prospect of birth often distracts her from the fact that other people who aren't nurses and him aren't accustomed to seeing her so undressed.

The sound she makes when he starts massaging languid circles on her aching lower back makes him smile, happy to be chipping away at the subsiding pain as the contraction finally ends. Thankfully, it isn't horrible between the contractions, but her back seems to be staying in a state of distress either way so his efforts to help are much appreciated.

It's quiet for a while, besides the soft background noise of music she put on as a distraction, the whole time he does this; the feeling of the heel of his palm digging into her sore muscles a godsend.

Her eyes flutter shut and it's like she can see everything for what it is. She remembers every moment that lead to this, to their little wonder coming into their lives. It's these times in life, when you're so incredibly aware of your own existence and the existence of the person beside you, that are so humbling. She was put into this world and one day she'll have to leave it, as will Bill, and as will their son. Time, moments she gets to spend with who she loves, being with him right now, is so precious. It was just yesterday that they were children themselves, then teenagers, then young adults. For god sakes, she can remember the first time he said I love you to her, the first time they had sex, everything as if it happened today. It's hard to believe when she's so content with life right now, that at one point in her youth she wanted to end it. All because of what her mother had done and that action's horrid consequences. It's in this second, that she swears to herself that she will never become that person. That she will be faithful to her husband, something her mother wasn't capable of doing, that she'll chose her child/children over her job and will never be absent as her mother was. Both of them learned lessons in where their parents had failed with them. In a way, she's grateful for what she got it.

"Are you as scared as I am?"

At last, the tears she'd been on the verge of shedding for various reasons today silently slip down her face. She moves from his touch and sits down on the bed.

He internally panics at the sight of her crying, but keeps himself calm externally. The mattress dips beside her when he sits down, rubbing her thigh the way he knows helps to make her feel safe and calm when she's upset.

"I'm terrified, but I know it'll be okay. You should know that too."

The secret fear he's been harboring for months begins to pour out all at once and he cannot help the panic in his voice.

"S-S-Stuttering is hereditary and I'm so fucking scared that he'll have it too. I've been thinking about it for m-months and I'm-I don't want him to feel the way I a-always do when I speak," a pause, "You?"

It's hard to watch her cry.

"I know, but I just-I know we're going to be good parents-I hope we are-and I'm just-" Her own sobs cut her off and somewhere behind him he can sense the nurse that's in the room tensing, but holding back.

His other hand rests on her belly, as if to comfort the baby since he knows he can probably sense his mother's distress from inside of her.

He whispers, "It's okay, just tell me. I p-promise it'll be okay. I'm right here..."

The way she cries through the words finishes cleaving his heart in half, "I don't want him to hate me, Bill. I don't want to turn into my mom. I-I-I can't become her, I want him to trust me and love me," a heaving gasp for air, "I love you so much. I already love him so much and I don't want to ever do anything to make him resent me!"

It may not be as obvious to her right now as it is to him, but there is no way he or their kid will ever hate her. She isn't a cheater, it isn't in her nature. She is so unflinchingly loyal to him that sometimes it baffles him to silence. And on the prospect of her being absent? That's not even a possibility. The situation with her mom was much different. Her parents barely had money and her mom was always either working or doing college work. He wouldn't dare use that to excuse her absence, since her father worked two jobs and still had time to be their primary caregiver, but they at least will be able to stay home with him all the time and not even have a chance to be absent like her mother or neglectful like his parents were.

She whimpers at the tears now welling up in his eyes.

The hand that was rubbing her thigh now cups her cheek and he says only loud enough for her to hear, "You are not your mom. I don't doubt for a second your loyalty to me, to him," A light tap of his fingers on her pregnant belly, "It breaks my heart that you even wuh-worry about that, because I know that you aren't even close to being that kind of person," He presses a kiss to her trembling lips, "Take deep breaths for me and remember who you are, remember that you aren't her...just breathe..."

She tries her best and manages to stop full-on sobbing after a half minute of trying.

After a few minutes of breathing deeply like he asked, she starts to talk.

This time she's responding to his fears, "I know how hard it is for you. Every day...but you should know that it'll be okay. Stutter and all, I love you for who you are and I sure as hell will love him, stutter or no. I said it once and I'll say it again; if our kid is half as amazing as you, then I will be one hell of a proud mother," Her hands are cradling his face, "I've thought about it too, and I'm sure you agonize over it every day, but he will pull through. If he has it, he will have the perfect Dad to help him."

His lips are on her's in a fraction of a second, the heated kiss fervent and needy. It doesn't last long, but the time it does last is no doubt dizzying. The feeling of sadness is like a stone in her gut and every time he touches or kisses her, it begins to fade away.

They stay in this position, their foreheads pressed together and hands sitting, laced together, in his lap, for an amount of time she cannot register. All that exists is him. He's her lifeline and she's his light.

It isn't until a certain song comes on that she lifts her head.

"Hey."

He looks up with a confused expression to meet eyes with her.

Y/N smiles with red, teary eyes at him and says, "We danced to this the night we got married."

Suddenly, the presence of the ring on his left hand is a lot more apparent. Neither of them ever take them off, so it's hard to remember they're even there. His body warmth is so inviting it makes her lean into him even closer, as far as the bump will allow. The slow beat of the song skitters along her spine in chills. Marriage, kids, she doesn't remember growing up.

He recalls the memory instantly after the words leave her mouth. They had a reception at a secluded little restaurant outside of the city. The love he'd seen in her eyes as they danced was so clear, so strong that it seemed to wrap around him just as she had wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Baby, I'm yours," He coos overdramatically, the mood lightening at the three words echoing in the room.

"And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky," Her singing is much better than his, even as he drags a thumb over her lower lip.

He waits a few lines before whispering into her lips, barely a centimeter between them.

"In other words, until I die, baby, I'm yours."

But instead of connecting lips, they both begin laughing hysterically, her head falling onto his shoulder as her chest sportatically rises and falls with her giggles. They barely notice the nurses' subtle glances, silent envy at the amount of love they hold for each other. They've been told many times, just how in love they seem. Most people are shocked when they tell them they've been together for eight years. They're often mistaken for a new couple, fresh in love and dazzled by the high of it. What a rare, intoxicating love they have.

They're smiling like idiots and repeat the song when it ends, swaying softly together as the sun sets outside of the closed curtains of the hospital room. Fear, for the first time in months, subsides for the both of them, if only for two minutes.

-

Everything began to pick up so quickly.

When they'd been having their emotional moment a few hours ago, she'd been seven centimeters dilated. And a half hour ago, the midwife checked her cervix and told her she was nine centimeters. Now, she's ten and has to push and the world feels so overwhelming and claustrophobic that she may cry. She may already be crying, between the pain-since they decided against an epidural long before ever coming in-of the contractions that are so blisteringly painful that she cannot compare it to any pain she's felt before today and the burning sensation of having to push a whole child out of her, between all of that she can't be sure what the hell she's doing. All she knows is the pain and Bill, who's hand she's clenching so hard both of them are shocked it hasn't lost circulation. He doesn't dare complain though-the minor pain of her death grip on his hand nothing in comparison to what she's going through. Because holy shit, even when she'd gotten cut open as a kid, getting that scar that still stretches across her abdomen to this day, he hadn't seen her so distressed.

While one of his hands is being squeezed to near loss of circulation, his other arm is around her shoulder, where a nurse told him to put it, to help keep her upright. After being in active labor all day, it's finally happening and he can barely breathe.

Throughout all of it, he's speechless and all he really can do is simply hold her hand and stroke her hair to at least try to give her some solace, though he's pretty sure she doesn't even notice.

He manages to find his voice when he sees her face flush red from holding her breath and say, "Breathe. Take a deep breath and push."

Everyone's been having to remind her to breathe, to remember that she needs to or she'll pass out, before pushing again. It's been this way for twenty minutes now.

She groans in pain, her body arching as much as they'll allow her to, and throws her head back against his forearm. He watches helplessly as her face contorts in reaction to the pain of the baby's head pushing out of her and tries to block out the sound of the heart monitors, for both her and the baby, the doctors, all of it. Her pain is his undoing.

"Y-You're doing great," He murmurs and his thumb strokes the back of her hand, "You're so brave."

"Please," She whimpers, "I love you so much, but please stop talking, I can't concentrate when I hear your voice."

She's practically screaming-more like grunting on an inhumanely loud level-again instantly after the last word leaves her mouth, then both him and the sheet fisted in her other hand are feeling her wrath. If she were able to speak through pushing the rest of him out, they're all sure she'd be cursing like a sailor. He's positive, she'd be dropping f-bombs and screaming if she weren't holding her breath. As a result of her holding her breath, any noise that does slip out is animalistic and guttural. Other people on the floor must think she's being put through medieval torture devices.

Everyone in the room is getting increasingly louder and her grip on him is so strong, her face twisting in pain at the worst of it. The midwife is saying loudly enough for her to hear through it all, to push one more time and then...

The beautiful sight of a goopy little alien-looking newborn being pushed into her arms.

At last, her pained look is subsiding and is replaced with the awe-struck, wide eyed happiness of seeing their child for the first time. Nothing could have prepared them for this. No matter how ready they thought they were, no matter how they thought it would feel, they weren't prepare for what would really happen in the moment that tiny human they created together was laid down on her heaving chest.

A nurse had wiped most of the protective layer of what she prefers to call 'goop', but is medically called vernix, off of his skin before handing him off to her, but there's still some of it on him in places. Despite that, despite the pain and the fact that newborn babies are always a wee bit ugly, she can't help but say it to him.

"You are so beautiful," Y/N cries, moving her hands to touch him for the first time and cradle him to her chest.

It is the most surreal moment in her life when that same nurse smiles and says, "Great job, mama. You did so well."

Mama. She's a mother.

This only makes her turn her head to the side and look up at Bill, who's looking down at the newborn crying in her arms before realizing she's staring at him. He kisses her, only for a few seconds, but they kiss hard and she realizes she's never loved him as much as she does right now. She never thought she could love him any more than she had. Never thought they'd add to the endless list of labels of what he is to her: friend, boyfriend, husband, father. When she pulls back, she only meets those gorgeous eyes for a moment before turning back to him. To their little baby boy that's crying for his parents' love and attention.

When he reaches out, hand trembling, and touches him for the first time, every worry, fear, and bit of negativity leaves him. None of it matters now that he's finally with them. Seeing her give birth to a living, breathing human and knowing that they did that-they made him-it makes him feel like he can do anything. If all that's wrong with him is a stutter, he'll be thankful for the rest of his life. Because he knows it, knew it when he first laid eyes on him a minute ago; he would die for him.

The midwife's words pull him from the awe of looking at his son though,

"Would you like to cut the cord?"

For the next hour, they stay in that bed with their newborn while a few people stay to check his heartbeat, give all three of them I.D bands, and simply monitor what's happening. But, to them, it feels like it's only the three of them. Bill sits on the edge of the bed beside her, to give them enough room to lay down without risking the baby falling of the bed should he somehow slip from their cautious eyes, while he whines and makes it very apparent that he's hungry. Even watching her breastfeed with him sends him into such a state of awe, he doesn't know what to do with himself. And they can't stop giving him kisses. No matter how many times they do it, it's never enough. Every few seconds, they find themselves whispering to him about "how much Mommy and Daddy love you". They're so mushy with emotion for him, shocking themselves with how quickly and naturally the nurturing parental roles snapped into place.

Warner Denbrough; a kid so lucky to have been born into the family he's got. They're all gonna love him to death.

Every moment of pain, pleasure, happiness, sadness, agony-all of it-that lead to him existing is all worth it in her mind, in his as well. And if they had to endure the lifetime of trauma that they had over and over again just to meet him, they would. For the first time ever, all they lived through...is worth it.


	6. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N gets a call from Bill's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working on this for three whole ass months so it is reaaally long

Life with their new child has been heaven.

Sure, there is a lot of getting up in the middle of the night and a lot of worry of a myriad of things; taking care of his umbilical stump and making sure he got enough to eat when she feeds him, and the plethora of postpartum troubles, but it's something they went in knowing they'd have to do.

Bill loves taking care of him and for the first week of his life, he swore he hadn't been as happy in months.

They pretty much sequestered themselves in their room for days on end with him and spent most of the time simply bonding with and taking care of him. A lot of the time, they'd spend hours laying together in bed while he napped on her chest and only woke up to eat or be changed. Sometimes, he would just watch as the both of them fell asleep together, Y/N on her back and Warner laying on top of her, and stay that way for hours at a time. It was hard to watch without tearing up; the beautiful sight of his newborn son and wife cuddling something he had waited forever to see. And sometimes, it'd be her awake while they slept and she would let the tears slide down her cheeks and weep silently for a few minutes at a time, then force herself to stop as to not wake the baby (or Bill). He's beautiful, to her he's the most beautiful person she's ever seen, even with the prominent birthmark he has under his right eye. No,  _especially_ with the birthmark.

It was instantaneously noticeable once he was laid on her chest, still being cleaned off by nurses and checked on. It's nothing to worry over too much, the doctor had told them, it's a port wine stain mark. It made her head spin at first with every ridiculous scenario of something being wrong with their baby, something that could harm or, god forbid, kill him. Until it internalized with her that he's healthy, he's fine, and that it's only a birthmark. A unique one at that.

Giving birth to him has sent her hormones out of whack even more than they were during the pregnancy and often she finds her mood fluctuating between happiness and sadness. But that's normal for a lot of women and she knows the difference between basic sadness and what would be postpartum depression so, for now, she isn't too worried about it.

When she was younger, she experienced depression in quite an extreme way in the years following their encounters with It and after discovering the secrets of her family, about her mom's infidelity. It had crossed her mind during the pregnancy, the possibility of having postpartum depression and having to possibly fall back down into the dark place she'd been in years ago as a teen. But it's different now. She's different, she's been through extensive amounts of therapy, her life is in a much happier place, and though the depression could possibly take hold she is sure she'll make it out. Just looking at Warner and Bill...it makes her flood with joy and love.

There were a lot of times in that first week that made them break down into tears.

Most of it was mundane things that managed to blow their minds, like the adorable little sounds he'd make or how affectionate he already is with them. The first time they handed him off to one of their friends, he started wiggling around and whining, which just went to show how attached he became to his parents while only being a few days old. Or when he's being breastfed and they sit back and watch him, unable to wrap their heads around the fact that they're parents now.

Bev ended up being the one to take all of the pictures. She would snap a photo when they weren't looking and pretty much any chance she could get. Not because they asked but because looking at them hold him and love on him made her heart melt and she couldn't refrain from capturing it with her camera.

There's something so heartwarming in seeing the three of them interacting together.

The Losers have been by their side through it all and saw as their relationship progressed from mere crushes to "till death do us part". To see them at last have a family together is both exciting and surreal. Sometimes, they'd just watch them as they cuddled downstairs and took care of him and stared with wide eyes. And despite the crying that sometimes wakes them up or the fact that taking care of him, though it is their responsibility as a couple, has been a group effort of everyone in the house. A lot of them jumped at the chance to help and bond with him. He's a new addition to their family.

Much to their wonder, the first month came and went quickly. It passed in days spent laying around lazily together, taking care of him their only job, and basking in the happiness of being with him at last.

Warner stirs in his sleep after a few hours of napping, laying curled onto Bill's chest as Y/N sleeps soundly cuddling into his side. His little fingers stretch to try to grasp at the unbuttoned edge of his flannel shirt and he coos, waking up from the edge of sleep with a whine. He left it open cause they've found that he quite likes skin to skin contact and the warmth of his father or mother's body heat to keep him warm. But with that, little one tends to find fascination in trying to hold the open shirt despite the fact that he isn't able to really grasp anything in those tiny fists for longer than a second yet.

This instantly pushes Bill into immediate "Dad Mode" as his wife and friends tend to call it, lifting his head as noiselessly from the pillow as he can without disturbing the baby to see what he's up to. The first week or two was spent finding out what his cues are, what his expressions and movements mean when he's hungry or tired or needs affection, and with some things, they're still figuring it out. Every day seems to be a new challenge in figuring out what to do or how to handle what he's doing. But he unbuttons the snaps on his onesie, checks his diaper, and finds it clean, for a minute or so he sits back and watches him to try to see what it is he wants. He has a pretty good guess, but that would involve waking her up and he wants to be sure. Every time he has to wake her up, he feels horrible and guilty knowing that her sleep schedule is horrendous at this point because of taking care of their son.

His face, now looking a lot less "alien-like" and odd as many babies look fresh out of their mother's womb, scrunches slightly and he opens his mouth against Bill's naked chest. He hesitates a second, watching him gravitate towards his chest and try to find something to suck on, not knowing the difference yet.

"Fuck," His voice is soft when he mutters it and reaches beside him to hold her by her shoulder.

Y/N wakes up quickly to the sight of their son whining and trying to find somewhere to latch onto cluelessly on Bill's chest and giggles groggily at them. He's being extremely gentle and sheepish and it makes her want to smile. Waking her up when she's tired is simply one of his least favorite things to do. After years of sharing a bed, it's become apparent that she can turn into a cranky monster when woken up early. But when its for their baby...he turns her into a mushy, soft pile of happiness.

Bill says kindly, "Babe," the pad of his thumb starts to rub languid circles on where it rests against her shoulder, "S-Sorry to wake you up, but I can't really help him here. He only wants one t-t-thing."

And she isn't angry or upset or any of the things she used to be with sleep deprivation looming over her, at this point it's normal, and the mattress creaks under her shifting weight. In a way, it makes her happy, makes her feel loved and needed. There's a kind of parental bonding in feeding him that no one else gets to experience but her. He doesn't object when she takes him off of his dad's chest and into her arms. Her sweater is lifted up on one side, braless, and he's latched on in no time.

Warner instantly begins to relax in her arms, relief no doubt flooding through him at being fed, and opens his eyes as he eats. Blue irises. It could be temporary, but she's hoping not.

She says, "He's so beautiful."

And that makes him turn his head and open his eyes, so tired from the constant responsibility of taking care of their son for the past month. A lot of the time, he's waking up every few hours and crying for her, because though he sometimes gets bottle-fed, most of the time he breastfeeds. But with a lot of other things, it's Bill who wakes up and takes care of it since she's still recovering from giving birth and already is woken up once every few hours to make sure he eats.

The skin on the top of his head, very lightly fuzzy with a few of his first strands of barely-there hair, is soft under the palm of his hand. Warner, of course, is too distracted by trying to suck down as much milk as possible to notice the tender touch. But she notices it and turns her head to look at him from where she sits against the headboard.

"I think he may have your eyes."

The next words he says are struggled through a yawn and he lets his hand mold over her's that supports the back of their baby's neck, "A lot of babies eyes get d-d-darker when they grow up. He might end up with a different c-color."

"Yeah," A loving glance at him, eyes darting between his eyes and the baby's now shut ones, "It'd be cool if they stay this way though. You've always had really beautiful eyes you know."

His face almost starts to redden at such a casually said, yet heartfelt compliment. She surely has spent a lot of time in her life looking at them.

Silence envelops them for a while. The only sound in the room is the TV faintly playing at the other end of their room and Warner softly swallowing and breathing. At many times in the past month and a half, they've had to sit back to simply watch him in awe sometimes. The amount of love they hold in their hearts for the little boy in her arms right now is immeasurable. Already, they loved each other so fiercely and couldn't imagine to have more of that love, such a blessing, enter their lives yet here he is. Such a tangible proof of their love for one another.

And the protectiveness, it hit him instantly. The first time he laid eyes on the boy, he had an urge deeply rooted in his soul to never let anything hurt him. He isn't someone easily prone to violence, but if anyone ever tried to take his child from his arms he would rip them to pieces. Slowly, make them suffer. His parents had come to mind. Who, though they wouldn't ever physically harm him, have shown that they're very capable of emotionally screwing over their own, intentionally or not. Then with the thoughts of his parents, instantly come the memory of It and what it would be capable of doing to his son. The hand gripping her's shifts so he can feel the warmth of Warner's skin under his fingertips to remind himself that he's there. That It doesn't have him. Still, it makes his body tense and those instincts to protect and defend him intensify. First Georgie, then if it managed to get their child...he would break beyond repair and spend the rest of his life trying to kill it, rip it to shreds, torture it, do whatever it takes to eradicate it from existence no matter the toll it would take on him.

Knowing that he would already go to such extremes for her and now him, knowing that he has yet another overwhelming vulnerability, it's horrible. The quickest way to break his heart is through the two other people in this room closest to it. That amount of vulnerability is dangerous.

Instead of not vocalizing it and stuffing it down as he often does when these crushing worries come to the surface for him, he speaks.

"I don't want to ever see him in danger," Bill murmurs.

Then, at the look of curiosity that crosses her face, he sighs and sits up, his index finger gently gripped in the much smaller fingers of his son while he talks.

"What happened to us was a nightmare and it's e-e-even worse to imagine it happening to him...to kids we may have years from now," His exhale is shaking and desperate, "I can't let him ever go to Derry. And even if It only lives there, I'm still afraid of it somehow finding him here."

Their stare is unbreaking even as his eyes water.

His voice is shaking, "We h-h-have to keep him s-safe. He's  _ours_ ; if It takes another person I luh-love from my life I s-s-s-swear-"

Soon her free hand is on his face, lifting his head to keep his eyes on her's as her expression is overcome with evident concern.

There are few people who ever see him this way and even with her, he's hesitant to let his calmed external appearance fall to reveal everything ruminating beneath the surface. For all of his life, he's been the one his friends looked to for leadership and almost a parental-like guidance, as much of a parental figure as a thirteen-year-old friend could have been. On countless occasions, the seven of them had thought of Bill as a figure of authority. Not because he had any actual authority over them but because of some natural allure of charisma about him that seemed to command attention. Maybe it is because of this, that he finds it so difficult to be anything other than just that-a hero-like figure that seldom falters when in reality he is just as human as them. Eddie spent years believing Bill to be his hero, practically worshipping him, knowing that if Bill only asked, he'd die for him. Underneath it all, they're all the same. Human beings pushed far past the regular limits of trauma, who're now simply trying to survive by encouraging one another.

It's flattering to her that he lets this wall down between them. She herself has had a fair share of moments quite like the one he's having right now and knows how difficult it can be to vocalize them. To work through them rather than shove it all down.

Y/N is leaned closer to him now and keeps his teary eyes locked to her's. Her voice is as smooth and gentle as a summer breeze.

"Of course," She is trying her best to not become as visibly upset as she is at the state of her love, for the sake of not making his crying turn into full on sobs, "He'll always be ours and keeping him safe-it's our priority. It's been our priority since the moment we decided to have him."

The subtle tears drop off the end of his chin and onto their baby's head. He doesn't even notice the small teardrops as they disappear into his skin, doesn't notice his father's crying either. Her hand slides down slowly from where it had been holding him by the face until it rests on the curve where his neck and shoulder bridge together.

"It'll be okay in the end. It's either dead or in hiding for the next fourteen years and even then, it'll never be able to hurt him. You and I both know that by the time it's been twenty-seven years since it tried to kill us, we'll be far away from Derry," The promise they made though...her fingers dig into the knots built up in his tense muscles, trying what she can to calm him, "I'm scared. For you, for him, but we've been able to live without fear for so long. That's what It wants. It wants us to fear him and I'm done living in fear," A glance down a the baby in her arms, "Thankfully, he'll never have to."

His face falls into the crook of her neck, savoring the comfort and safety that being so near to her brings him as he tries to internalize the words. It can't get to him. I'm done living in fear-he will never have to.

The surface of her lips graze his forehead and she presses a kiss there. Her following whisper runs along his heart, practically mending the breaks there that have troubled him his whole life with every word.

"You won't have to lose us, Bill."

And then her soft whisper is there again, her free hand once again lifting his chin to bring their faces to the same level, her lips a tender brush on his, "Stay with me," A barely audible sound of anguish escapes his mouth at that, "It's hard to, but stay. Don't go back to that dark place," He moves forward but she pulls back only slightly so that she has enough room between their almost pressed together lips to speak, "You aren't there anymore. It can't get to you, to us, we're safe. I promise."

The way his voice breaks on the next word makes her heart ache for him, "Promise?"

"Yes."

The end of the S is cut off by him finally kissing her like he wanted to do, to at least have some sort of physical connection to prove she's real, to keep him from losing his mind. The only reason he isn't pulling her closer is because of the nursing baby that's so close to them, no matter how unbothered the baby boy is by his parents' words or kisses he's mindful of the fact that his son is almost watching this little moment.

It has gotten easier for him to live-with what happened to him, with Georgie's death, with his parents' neglect. But sometimes he can't escape it as easily and a part of him still blames himself for it all. He couldn't have come this far-lived with what happened- without help from the people who love him, the only other seven people on this earth who could possibly understand what it is that renders him so broken, and every day he thanks his lucky stars for them.

But the sound of Warner softly coughing, his mouth pulling back from her to let out his little coughs from drinking too fast, makes them both instantly on alert and look down at him.

"What happened?" She coos at him, "You're okay, it's okay."

Bill rubs at his back over the fabric of his onesie and tries to make him burp or at least stop coughing. He does after a few seconds, not even acknowledging the small hiccup, and moves back to her breast, little hands trying to grab at her the best he can.

"Probably drank a little to f-fast."

With that, she gives him a nod and keeps her eyes on the baby latched to her. It takes a minute or two of carefully looking down at him and making sure he's alright before she moves her gaze back to Bill.

"Are you okay?"

When it happens without her, if she's at work or out of town for whatever reason, it's harder to come down from it. He can do it himself, sometimes prefers to, but it's difficult. With her, he finds that he feels stronger and safer. With her, he feels like he's home-a revelation he'd had years ago back in his childhood home in Derry. Her heart is his home.

He nods and says, "Yeah, I'll be alright."

In less than a second, he's leaned forward to kiss her once more and it's only a few seconds, but she can feel the appreciation and love emanating from it clearly.

"T-Thank you."

They spend a lot of time in the next half hour talking and watching Warner nurse. But a lot of it is simply spent with him holding her near, savoring her warmth and kind words of encouragement anytime he seems to backslide back into his previous state. And though he's sure he's told her a million times before, he tells her how much he loves her, whispers it softly into her skin and presses kisses into her neck.

-

Beverly was who she first told.

A week later, after Bill broke down in front of her and confessed his worries with their son and Derry, the phone rang. And there were a few moments she had to sit in silence after the person on the other end hung up to internalize everything.

Bill's parents had called, asking if they could go to Derry for a visit.

"What do you mean? How am I supposed to tell him?"

The house was empty save for her, Bev, and then Eddie asleep upstairs. (And Warner if you'd count him sleeping in their room).

Part of it had to do with how his possible reaction could've been and part of it had to do with her needing to wrap her head around it all, but Bev was the best bet for advice. She always can provide a sense of level-headedness to a situation that she cannot have when she's too blinded by emotion or confusion. She and Mike are usually her go to people for advice if Bill is gone or if it's  _about_  Bill...

The floorboards creaked as she paced across the living room nervously in front of where her friend sat on their old couch, comfortable but practically bursting at its seams.

Every option she had felt too dangerous and uncomfortable. Hell, every option felt too clustered and blurred. She needed to talk to someone about it first, get a second opinion before dropping a bomb like this. His parents and Derry...those are certainly not the easiest of subjects to bring up. If she was being honest, they're also sore spots for her as well and could understand the pain associated with both. That's why this came first.

"I'm not sure how, all I know is that he needs to know..." Bev then let her voice go soft, "You know, he may want to go. They're still his parents."

That's exactly what she was afraid of. Him getting his hopes up, only to be disappointed as he always is by them.

Her next words were quick and she didn't bother filtering her words for a person who knows her better than she knows herself, "They treated him like he wasn't there, you saw it yourself, it wouldn't have made a difference if he'd died too, they acted like he was nothing."

"I know that, but he loves them," A heavy, considering sigh, "Just like Warner loves you two. He'll always love his parents...you and your Mom-"

Her head snapped up and eyes widened, the sound of footsteps moving along the floor halted. Most of them stayed far away from mentioning that. But her fire-haired friend never did and they're closer for it. Something about being comfortable enough with one another to touch on such a sour memory and be able to move on a moment later...they've always been able to understand each other pretty well.

Beverly gave her a soft smile of sympathy at her reaction but kept on.

"You told me, when we were twenty-three and in college and you were  _stupid_  in love with Bill like you were still lovestruck teenagers, that no matter what happened you'll always love your mom. That hating her, for the small time you did when we were younger, was the hardest thing you've ever done. Said it was much easier on everyone involved to move on, whether that meant you moving across the country with the boy she didn't want you to settle down with or grow to love her exactly like you used to."

The words of wisdom she so desperately needed but-

"How am I supposed to forgive them and move on, when it's not even me they did anything to? You can't forgive someone for something they didn't directly do to you. And what if he wants to go, but then we have Warner, he needs us."

The room went quiet for a few seconds and in those few seconds, they both felt like there was a palpable kind of answer surrounding them. Only Bev could say it though. Only she could give her the push she needed to toughen up and ready herself to go back to that place. No matter how horrible it'd feel to rip open the stitches of such an old wound.

"Forgiving them isn't your call, it's Bill's," She said very softly, carefully, then proceeded, "I can take care of Warner, so can the other Losers. You'll only be gone for a few days, right?"

That's how she ended up here, at their Christmas Eve party, with her stomach tying itself into a knot with worry.

Everything else felt normal.

Christmas music is faint in the background, most of the sound that reach her ears being the sound of her friends' voices as they bullshit and cook food and arrange presents beneath the tree. Stan and Richie are standing the corner of the kitchen talking amongst themselves while Bev, Mike, and Eddie are working on the dinner they insisted was a necessity. Ben is the one bringing the gifts up from the basement where Stan hid them because " _We all know Richie will go snooping if we don't-ow! Richie, why the hell did you throw your shoe at me?_ "

Their living room hasn't looked the same since the day after Thanksgiving, when they were all dragged down to the store with Bev, who's favorite Holiday is Christmas, to get some decorations for both Christmas and Hanukkah. They decorated on a day that Richie was gone and when he came back he crinkled his nose and told them it looked like the holidays threw up on their house. They even bought their dog an elf hat-that he hates-in the spirit of all the festivities.

Y/N is leaned against the kitchen counter, Warner in her arms with his face buried into her shoulder. He's been becoming a lot more social with the Losers lately and has been able to focus better, contrary to when he'd just been born nearly two months ago and all he knew was that he liked to eat, sleep, and cuddle with his parents. A lot of the time recently it seems like he's listening to them, or at least trying to, and they all can't get enough of him. Especially Eddie though, watching those two interact is one of the sweetest things she's ever seen.

The protectiveness she feels over him caught her off guard though. Whenever she sees someone else going to pick him up or feels them take him from her arms she almost begins to tense, as if her body is preparing itself to lunge at someone, before her common sense kicks in and she reminds herself that they aren't a threat, they love him and they're his family. When she was becoming frustrated with that feeling, the need to always protect him, even from some of her favorite people in the world, she went to Bill about it. He just pulled her down onto the mattress where their son was napping on his chest and told her not to worry, that he's sure that anyone who grew a child inside of them would be a little bit protective of it.

"So, what are you guys planning to do for the rest of the year?" Richie asks from across where she's leaned against the kitchen island with her back to the rest of the living room.

Maybe he didn't know about the call yet, but the words struck her and she had to shake away the sudden onslaught of what she needs to talk to Bill about later.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

Stan looks like he's on his guard, one second away from telling Richie to back off. Bev definitely told  _him_  then.

"You aren't going to like, bring him to meet his grandparents. After all, he is their only child's spawn I'm sure they'd love to meet the guy."

That launches Stan into a rant about how he needs to stop calling Warner their "spawn" and refer to him as a baby like "any decent human being would". Richie scoffed and responded, "It's bold of you to assume I'm a decent human being, Staniel!"

This is the first time she ever realized that she's technically their child now too. Not by blood but, because she's tied to Bill by law now they're her parents too. It felt weird to think of it that way when they never spent much time around her anyway. Even when they both still lived in Derry when they were still too young to move away, they didn't talk to her much outside of the first time Bill let them know she was his girlfriend and they asked if she could come over. Other than that, it was brief conversations on their way out the door or up to bed for the night while they watched movies downstairs or hung out in his room. They would ask how she was, she would tell them everything's fine even when her entire family life had been falling apart. Then, she would ask how they are and they would tell her fine even when they neglected him so much that sometimes he would just break down into tears when they were lying on the couch together or listening to music in his room. Neither of them asked him how he was, she realized. They asked her if only to be polite, then walked right upstairs, but never even asked their own son. She can remember what it felt like to hold him as he cried.

She wants to run away at the thought of bringing their son there. Thank god Beverly offered to take care of him and if she offered, that likely means Ben would be helping too. Although Eddie would also step up to take any chance he could get to spend time with him too.

Suddenly it feels like everyone has one ear tuned in on the conversation, but for her sake, they don't falter in what they're up to. It's likely that only Stan and Mike were told about the babysitting they'll need to do, since everyone else is pretty shit at keeping their mouths shut.

"Can I get back to you on that one?" Y/N asks, forcing a gentle little laugh from herself despite the sudden heaviness weighing down her chest.

And he immediately catches it. He'll joke about anything and everything and sometimes might cross a line he didn't know was there, but he cares about her. About all of them. For her, parents are a topic to tread very carefully on, unlike the jokes he always makes about wanting to do Eddie's mom.

The cup of eggnog is snatched from his hands with a smile and he sits back, crosses his arms, and watches as she drinks what she stole from him with a shit-eating grin.

She almost spits it out but forces herself to swallow it back for the sake of not drenching her baby in the beverage. Meanwhile, the Trashmouth has his head tipped back in infectious laughter.

" _Jesus_ , Richie, you put bourbon in this?"

He puts on one of his favorite voices and drawls, "That's what you get for stealing my drink, you slimy fuck, if you asked I would've been the kind gentleman I am and gotten you a glass that was un-spiked, but you got all grabby and bourbon is your punishment."

There's a scoff from far behind her, the stairs, and Bill walks across the living room from where he'd just hurried down the staircase.

"I'd h-h-hardly call bourbon a p-punishment."

Before she can blink, he's there beside her and Warner is babbling unintelligibly at him and giving him his best toothless smile. They're getting to that point in his incredibly young life where smiles are less of a reflex and more of a sign of happiness. He always gets so happy when Bill walks into the room. Even now, he's kicking his legs out in front of him.

It isn't that she doubted his parenting abilities, she told him time and time again when she was pregnant how wonderful he'd be, it's just that he completely surpassed her already high expectations of him. Though he would never be convinced of it himself, he's a great father so far and she couldn't do this without him.

Her fingers card through the damp head of mahogany hair (he just finished showering) as he dips to get face to face with their baby, pressing incessant kisses all over his little face to pull more of those adorable noises out of him. She doesn't even notice everyone else watching the interaction because she's too busy watching it herself, it melts her heart. Especially because of how happy it makes Bill, not just their giggling baby. Seeing him genuinely smiling and happy is something only the Losers really get to see and ever since he came into their lives, they see him like this more and more often.

His smile is bright and it sends her reeling as he stands up straight again, their eyes meeting.

Warner is still cooing at him, itching to get into his arms, but they take a small second for themselves and he crowds her space, angling his head to the side to kiss her. His lips are gentle when they press against hers, the sound of their lips meeting barely audible over the sound of the holiday music and their friends talking softly amongst themselves throughout the kitchen/living area of their shared house. It only lasts a moment, but they could both feel it-the sense of lingering need and love lurking behind it.  _To be continued_. When they can get a moment to themselves and just be. He figures maybe he can draw a bath when the baby falls asleep and they can talk and kiss and spend time with each other. Alone time, because although they love the bonding time they get when they spend time altogether with their son, they still take every spare moment they can to spend with one another.

The last bit of alone time they got was when he was napping two days ago, Bill literally picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. It was hard for her to keep her laughter quiet as he walked down the hallway until they reached the empty room they had yet to find a use for since Warner will be sleeping with them for a long while. All they did was make out (and she may have helped him out with something that happened to interrupt them as they kissed along the way that ended with swollen red lips and flushed faces) and talked. Talked softly into the space between them about whatever came into their minds as they laid, cuddled up on the floor of the empty room. He kept muttering to her how much he loved her, how proud of her he was, basically making it his sole duty in the hour and a half they got together to make her blush and smile more than she has in her whole life. It was genuine though. All he could think as he laid there beside her was how lucky he was. How wild it was to believe that all of this became a possibility in the eye of a storm of darkness. Even if he was rough around the edges and there were still some missing pieces, he felt lucky. So, unbelievably lucky.

Bill pulls back from her and lets his hand linger on her shoulder for a moment, squeezing the tense muscles comfortingly. What has her so tense? The thought left as quickly as it came though, because she handed Warner off to him after the whole minute she endured of him trying with all of his small amount of newborn baby strength to wiggle out of her arms and into his.

The weight of having him in his grasp is familiar now and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in at the feeling of his child in his arms.

"He been cranky? Earlier he w-w-was upset and no matter what I did he k-kept crying."

But then that smile pushes the tense muscles and far-off worried look he'd seen in her eyes even farther away and the warmth of her hand rubbing up and down his arm makes the world feel safe. There's no place he'd rather be.

Y/N shakes her head, "No, he's been fine. Richie keeps trying to make him laugh at his dirty jokes though."

He can't find it in himself to even be kind of upset about that. In fact, he laughs.

"Yeah, that s-sounds about right."

"I apologize in advance on behalf of Richie for the amount of nasty shit he's probably gonna say to your child tonight, " Bev pitches in from behind where Stan and Richie are standing.

Everyone smiles, but their Trashmouth scoffs and throws his hands up in the air.

The night goes as everyone anticipated it would.

With Christmas music, freshly baked cookies, courtesy of Eddie, and a new respect for Richie's talent as a comedian because holy shit, the nasty jokes he told in an attempt to get Warner to laugh (even though he was giggling because of the voices and faces he was making, not the jokes) had all of them in tears. A lot of the time they hide it and roll their eyes at most of the shit he says, but they do genuinely find him funny and watching all of her family interact like that meant the world to her. It made the prospect of dealing with the phone call she got from Bill's parent feel distant and insignificant if only for a few moments.

She spends a lot of the time when she isn't laughing with her friends or bantering with them or looking after the baby, thinking about when she's going to talk to him about it. Most of the time, it feels like there isn't anything they can't work through as long as they're together but this-this will be bad. Or at least she anticipates the worst that could possibly happen. Because they utterly destroyed him and as far as parents go, in her humble opinion, they are two people she hopes never raise a child again.

When it comes time to unwrap gifts they got each other though, her mind drifts again and she's preoccupied enough to not ruminate over every terrifying possible outcome of telling him that his parents want them to return to Derry.

Even though they told everyone that they have every possible thing they'd need for Warner, he definitely got the most gifts of all of them and they concluded once and for all that he's going to be the most spoiled child to ever walk the earth with his "ridiculous aunt and uncles". He's currently snoozing in Eddie's arms sporting a new onesie Bev bought him.

Ben is sat to her right, Bill on her left, as she unwraps the gift he got for her and his smile is the type you only get from bringing happiness to others. The light, excited kind that reaches your eyes. He's always been kind and considerate and in the darkest of moments, he's been a friend to her like no other. When she had been mutilated in the cistern as a kid, he was right there and there's a part of her that will never forget exactly how loyal and true to the core he can be.

"Holy shit, Ben," She murmurs under her breath, then turns to face him, "Thank you."

A framed picture from that first week after they came home from the hospital, one of the ones that Beverly took of the three of them relaxing on the couch together. Already, it's clear to see how quickly he's grown, even if he's still a tiny little newborn. And as she focuses more on it she can see that it must have been only a few days after he was born since her belly hadn't yet deflated. It's beautiful. So beautiful she almost starts to cry at the sight of it.

It's so casual, just them chilling on the couch as they would any other day, but with their son in the picture it feels like they're staring at some fine painting in one of those art museums that Mike took her to once when they visited New York.

There's a dozen of pictures just like it that they have from before they had a kid. A lot of them were once taken without their knowledge, or ones that Bill took when she wasn't looking until the flash gave him away.

There's still one that she has in her bedside drawer of them; sheets drawn up over their naked bodies and her head thrown back in laughter with his face buried into her exposed neck. It's a day she recalls vividly everytime she sees that picture. They were fresh out of college then and that was when they were living in an apartment building across the city from where they currently live. It was their first day living there and they made a night of it after moving in. He'd made a poor attempt at making something Mike once tried to teach him to make and accidentally started a small fire in their oven, that they were able to smother fortunately. But later on they were tangled up together and talking softly amongst themselves and he leaned over to the side of the bed to grab his camera. Apparently, her smile wasn't satisfactory, so he took it upon himself to tickle her until she smiled.

Moments like those, like the one on the couch or other casual times in their lives, are what make every hardship they've had to face so worth it. And looking down at the framed picture gives her strength, hope. That maybe things won't end in disaster and that no matter what happens, even if things do go terribly, they've always shown that they're strong enough to go on.

Again, she says, "Thank you," and hugs Ben tightly.

He smiles.

"You're welcome, but I only framed it, Bev was the one that took it."

"No," She shakes her head, "It's still-thank you."

When she turns back to look at Bill, he's practically beaming, the picture now in his hands and his eyes trained on it.

It stuns him. All of the feelings of gratefulness and love and joy, it's almost too much. Almost worries him, because after a whole life filled with horrors no person should ever have to experience, when something good comes along he braces himself for the impact of the bad. But this, for him, is a light in a dark, dark tunnel that he's spent years digging himself out of. Maybe he'll always be trapped there desperately searching for a way out of the darkness that seems to chase him everywhere he goes, but Warner is  _good_. He is light, he's never been hurt or corrupted. This picture was his second day in this world and it's clear to see the love in his parents' eyes if you glance at it long enough.

His eyes flick up to focus in on where their baby sleeps in Eddie's arms.  _How can something so wonderful exist in a world like this? How did we make something so beautiful_ , he wonders. We made him, he's ours.

The shock of suddenly being a father hasn't worn off. But he's quickly brought out of that daze by the chatter of his friends around him.

Richie and Beverly both have devilish smiles blooming on their faces as Stan tosses a box to where he's sitting on the couch. The name card reads, " _To Y/N (and Bill kinda)_ ", so he slides it over into her lap with a confused look on his face as to why it's "kinda" a gift for him too.

The box itself, flat and rectangular in shape, looks expensive and it makes her feel guilty for even accepting a gift that could've been even a tad bit too pricey. But, she lifts the lid off anyway and immediately scoffs at what lays inside on a small bed of tissue paper.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me, Richie."

When Bill leans over to look at it he almost chokes on his own spit and starts laughing, shaking his head at the smug smile on the Trashmouth's face.

Because what she lifts out of the box is probably the most extravagant piece of sexy lingerie she has ever touched and everyone in the room bursts out into fits of laughter as she holds it up.

It truly is a spectacle. What she picked out when the evil twins, as she calls Beverly and Richie, forced her into that store a year ago was incredibly modest compared to this.

They're practically howling from where they sit across from her on the floor beside the Christmas tree.

"Richie, I expect this from, but I at least had  _some_  faith in you, Bev!" Y/N says incredulously, turning over the scraps of lace in her hands to inspect further.

This only makes them laugh harder though and she cracks a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," Bev manages to say, but her giggling betrays her.

The lace tickles her skin as she runs her fingers over it, her mind instantly going to what exactly this little number has to do with and she suddenly feels an urge to cross her legs.

Everyone is starting to calm down from their laughter when he responds, "It's not my fault you have shit taste in lingerie. I'm a rich fountain of culture, Y/N, and I needed to gift you something other than the tame shit you bought last time. And, I'm kinda trying to give Bill a heart attack so this seemed like the quickest way to do it short of dropping your spawn and I'm not in the mood for that."

Tame. It didn't feel tame. Especially not when it was being taken off of her...flashes of memory take hold in her mind. Of the warmth of the hearth that was beside them in that cozy little cabin of theirs. His hands holding the sheer fabric into fists as he was on his knees in front of her. He'd looked so dazed with pleasure, his eyes were wide and his lips were kiss-swollen when he looked up-her face heats up at the memory, but she pushes it away.

Bill though, is more fixated on the last comment and launches into an argument with their friend about the time he almost dropped Warner.

"You almost d-d-dropped my infant son, I'm not gonna just let it go!"

"That was  _one time_!" Richie cries indignantly and vaguely gestures in the half-awake baby's direction, "And if you recall, I caught him and he's still alive."

That day was terrifying and no matter what, despite the fact that everything ended fine and they told him not to be sorry, he couldn't stop apologizing. Suddenly all the jokes and his mask was gone and he looked scared shitless. Looked like a sad puppy. He knows they forgive him and don't hold it against him, so this "argument" is purely for shits and giggles. And now he feels comfortable enough joking about it since they vehemently expressed their forgiveness.

"Thank you, guys," She interjects, "for the uh-" A pause, "clothes."

Beverly perks up with a smile and opens her mouth to speak.

"I mean, it's not just for you," A wink in Bill's direction, "But we figured with all the changes going on-well I read a lot of articles on what to buy new moms, Richie just heard lingerie and came with, but it must be hard to feel yourself again or confident with everything changing with your body right now; so we figured you could rock your sexy mom bod in this."

It's sweet and incredibly heartwarming until Richie opens his mouth.

"Yeah, honestly would it be inappropriate to inform you that you're a total milf?"

His way of trying to say what Bev did.

Everyone starts yelling at Richie and she pretends to be mad but is fighting off laughter. A lot of the time his blunt humor scares people away or is mistaken for him being mean, but the Losers are accustomed to it. Sometimes it crosses a line, but most of the time is either plain funny or so stupid that they all roll their eyes and disregard it.

The gift is shut back in the box when she says, "Unfortunately for you, Trashmouth, you are not my type."

"Then what is?"

When she opens her mouth to speak, Eddie cuts in.

"Stuttering redhead authors, duh," He says, the baby in his arms finally coming to.

Bill, meanwhile, is simply sitting back and watching all of this go down with a shit-eating grin on his face.

The gift caught him off guard too and though it was a gag gift, it made him tense up.

It's been months. And months, for them, is unheard of. It hasn't put any strain on their relationship, since once their relationship had relied entirely on emotional intimacy years ago before their first time anyway, but it's definitely made them tightly wound around those subjects. Seeing this was only a reminder of how long it's been. But he'll wait as long as she needs to be ready. Like Beverly said, she's been through a wild amount of changes and though it's safe to at this point and they were given the go-ahead by her doctor, there's an emotional side to it too.

It takes some women the six weeks it takes for their bodies to physically recover to be ready again and for some it takes months. It was what they both went in anticipating. Plus, they couldn't tear themselves away from Warner even if they tried long enough to have sex anyway.

"Nah, I understand if she wants to have his beautiful ginger babies. If I was a chick I'd be all over that for procreation," He says with a shrug.

It's hard to smile though or even laugh when she thinks about what she has to talk about soon. The other week he'd broken down into tears beside her over Derry and his parents, protecting their son, and now she's going to tell him that they might have to go back to the place that haunts his nightmares.

The call came out of the blue for her.

He never told her he called his parents to tell them she was in the hospital about to give birth to their grandchild, didn't think they'd want to come to visit or even say much other than how happy for him they were or something else he wouldn't exactly believe the sincerity of. But they did call back. They did want to see him again but in Derry rather than here. And it's hard enough to think of the town, let alone go back to it, so the fact that she has to break the news after such a great night. It'll break her heart.

As if sensing the distress while their friends continue on blindly, Bill squeezes her hand from where he sits next to her, her legs pulled into his lap.

"You okay?" He murmurs, thumb rubbing circles on her palm.

They don't do this. They don't hide things from each other, not things like this; things that involve their parents or their child or It. If he needs her, she'll have to be strong and being strong includes having the courage to actually talk about things with him. To not stuff it all down. Because he's always there when she needs him...always. And it's not like she could hide something like this anyway. Odds are, if she were to act as if that call never happened and do nothing, they'd end up contacting him somehow and that's not what she wants. She doesn't want to keep him from them. If he doesn't want to hide from his past, then she won't hide from it either.

Y/N is struggling to find the words to answer what should be a simple question. I'm fine. Two words, incredibly easy. Except it isn't and she's practically bursting with anticipation and nervousness.

And it's her hesitation that makes him truly begin to worry. All night, she's been nervous and worried and he could tell. First, in the kitchen, then a few other times when they were eating and talking with Stan and Richie once the food was done, and now it's back. He tried to shrug it off as him being "fussy", as she always tells him he is, but there's a difference between being a "mother hen", yet another of the plethora of names she calls him, and being rightfully worried. It's something you pick up on after years of being around someone, friend, love, family member, doesn't matter who, but once you've been living with someone for as long as they've been with each other you pick up on their cues. Like the cues Warner gives them when he's hungry or tired or upset, it's not hard to feel the shift in the air when someone isn't feeling right. The faraway look in their eyes, the sudden tension in their muscles and face. Though she likes to believe she hides it well, she isn't hiding it this time.

"I-"

The sound of Eddie's voice, overlapping the beginning of the baby's crying, cuts in before she has to answer.

"Can you take him? I think he's hungry and I can't exactly help..." He says and stands from the chair next to the couch.

The rest of them aren't looking or listening to the crying or the evident worry in her face, except for Beverly. She's been watching her friend all night, ready to help or talk or just be a shoulder to lean on. But she stays out for now and stays seated beside where Richie and Stan are huddled close together, entirely lost in conversation. It almost looks like...

She shakes her head as if trying to shove those thoughts away as she moves to take Warner from Eddie's arms. Instantly, she feels at least a little bit calmer with her baby in her arms. There's something about him that steadies her. Almost akin to his father and his gift for leading people, keeping them together and calm. Having him in her arms makes the world feel a lot safer than it would without him and that's what makes her do what she does next.

"Bill?" Y/N quietly says, her back to the rest of their friends now.

He hums in response while looking back at that framed picture in his lap again.

"Can you help me with him?"

The walk up the stairs is quiet, if you don't count their baby's cries and the very soft sounds of her voice soothing him. But neither of them say a word to each other. For her, it's because of the call. For him, it's more about waiting for whatever it is she so clearly has to talk about to be let out. Scaring her off from telling him about what's bothering her is about the last thing he wants to do. From experience, he knows that she can be that way when confronted too abruptly. If it's not on her own terms, confrontation terrifies her.

What had previously been their bedroom has transformed into a multi-purpose nursery/bedroom/home for anything belonging to their baby. Sometimes, it starts to feel like the walls of the decently sized bedroom are getting smaller and smaller and are closing them in. It's been getting harder to ignore their lack of space, but for the time being they're trying to deal with it and wait until he's older before they move. To part with the Losers would feel wrong and they want to do it as far from now as they possibly can.

The door shuts with a click somewhere behind her.

Derry, their parents, It, all problems they thought wouldn't be able to catch them from all the way across the country. But it seems that trouble always finds a way to them one way or another.

By the time she's settled on the bed, topless, Warner nursing, she's still struggling to stall. Anything to prolong the inevitable until...

"You're practically s-shaking," Bill says softly into the space between them, "Downstairs, in the kitchen and a second ago on the c-c-couch, you seemed off."

It's an effort to keep her gaze from drifting back down to the baby latched onto her chest. She wants to shy away from the way his eyes pin her to her spot and look down, but he needs to hear this. It's his call, his move. He's leaned up against the shut door with a curious look on his face. The kind of look that tells her; he knows. He knows that she's been hiding something and has been silently waiting for her to come to him with it, not expecting it to be as big of a deal as what she actually is about to tell him is.

Y/N waits a moment, contemplating.

And as she does this, the room is silent save for the sounds of their friends downstairs laughing and listening to holiday music as loud as they can without getting shit from their neighbors for it. It's hard to know what to say in these moments and she has never been one to tread carefully with important announcements. Always blurting things out in a fit of worry or happiness without considering the aftershocks of what she might say. But right now, she does tread carefully.

"I got a call from your parents a week ago and I wasn't sure how to talk to you about it."

That was as careful as she could've been.

The words hit like a physical blow to the gut and she saw every different shade of emotion hit his face, the pain from the mentioning of his parents alone enough to make his features harden instantly. Quickly, he recovered though and the confusion and hurt begins to dissolve into something else.

Warner is cradled into her arms gently still and she takes a moment to tear her eyes away from where her husband stands across from her to glance down at him while he nurses. Light from the lamp she switched on on the bedside table illuminates the room enough for her to see the details in his little face; the barely-there head of fuzzy "hair" that she can feel beneath the palm of her hand resting on the back of his head, the reddish-pink birthmark under his right eye, and his adorable bright eyes. It'll be hell to have to part with him if Bill decides he wants to go. They haven't had to spend more than a few hours away from him yet since he's still so young and she isn't sure she's particularly ready to, but if he goes to Derry, she's sure as hell going with him.

"W-What did they want? They n-n-never call us..." At the end, his voice goes quiet and she can practically feel all of those bitter childhood memories coming back to him.

"They asked us to come visit them," She pauses, "In Derry."

And very suddenly, it feels like all of the air in the room has been sucked out and neither of them can breathe.

For him, it isn't as easy to think about. At least she's had the week to think, at least she could stew over the idea for a little while before voicing it, but Bill was simply thrown into it. Every traumatic memory, every regret, the ghost of his brother that he couldn't seem to outrun if he tried...He forces himself to breathe even if it feels like he got the wind knocked out of him. Forces himself to think through the constricting of his throat.

He could bare returning to his childhood home, but bringing their son is a different story. Just two weeks ago he swore he would never let Warner step foot in Derry and now his parents want him to visit.

"I-" A sharp pause as he tries to collect himself, "We can't-" he stops for a moment.

It wasn't what he was expecting to hear at all.

Y/N hadn't been giving much away downstairs and she'd been tense, but tense and out of sorts enough for him to expect something like this. The door is cold against his back, the chill of winter somehow reaching them even with the heat blasting on high in their house, but he ignores it.

"You d-didn't tell me," was all he could manage.

"I didn't know how to."

"But you should have, Y/N," He rubs his eyes and blows out an exhale, his mind racing, "Y-You can't just keep things like that from me. If your mom called me I would never-" The look on her face at the mentioning of her mother made him stop, "...you and I n-never do that."

This wasn't the reaction she was expecting. She expected worry and panic and sadness but not anger, if you could count his slightly harsh tone as anger.

Silence breaks between them, her heart beginning to beat at a thundering pace with the sudden argument. They don't argue much, so this isn't something she's exactly prepared for. But it registers to her quite quickly that this means something to him. Her keeping this from him meant something and she'd unknowingly crossed some line in the sand he'd drawn. Things having to do with Derry, family, or It-they're urgent matters. They aren't to be taken lightly and though she never once took it lightly, she did the opposite actually, he can't help but feel upset.

His arms are loosely crossed over his chest as they star each other down, waiting for the other to break.

Sometimes, she's a little too hardheaded for her own good. Backing down is not in her nature and if she believes she's right, it's hard to convince her otherwise. She's the one to speak first, but the woman he fell in love with does not break.

"I panicked. They called me out of nowhere, haven't spoken to me in-what? Maybe four or five years? And ask us to come visit them, which, I don't know how you feel about going back, but I refuse to bring Warner there, which is who I assume prompted them to pick up the phone in the first place even though no one told them we had him-"

"I did."

It's her turn to be shocked into silence.

In response to her face, and the raised eyebrows, Bill says, "The day you gave birth, I called Mom and told her," That was why they asked her to visit and it all seems to click with him as he talks, "I didn't think they'd want to m-muh-meet him since they never really cared about anything I did before."

This only makes them both wonder, why  _do_  they want to meet him? Other than feeling obligated to meet their grandson because he's family, why would they bother if they otherwise kept to themselves all this time? If they do have good intentions, Bill wouldn't know nor would he trust it due to their history with him.

"I'm sorry I kept this from you. I got scared and didn't know what to do, but I should have told you...I'm sorry," Y/N says softly.

But it wasn't all her fault. He's upset with her, but it isn't something they can't get over. Especially with more important things, like what he just found out, looming over their heads.

Bill pushes off from where he was leaned against the closed door and walks to the bed in two strides, mattress creaking when he takes the spot beside her.

"So, y-you've had a week to think this over," He says, "What do you think we s-s-should do?"

-

Nervous. Tired. Scared. Nauseous. Those are all things they feel as they get closer to Derry, Maine.

It's been five days since Christmas and it's safe for Y/N and Bill to say that all of them were a whirlwind of emotion.

They spent the rest of Christmas Eve locked in their room with Warner talking through the details of everything that happened-the phone call, about whether or not they're ready to leave Warner even if it's only for a few days, her talk with Beverly-everything she had kept from him for the week leading up to the Holiday, they spent the rest of the night into the early hours of morning talking about. The small "fight" (if you could even call it one), they had has still left Bill a little sore, and especially on Christmas Day, everyone could notice a new weight on his shoulders that dimmed the light in him from the night before as he trudged through the living room.

But as he always does, he tried not to let it show through. Put a damper on that hurt that had slightly begun to dissolve when she explained herself the night before for the sake of his friends' happiness and taking care of their baby. There wasn't any bitterness between them or too much of a shift in how they interacted, only a slight rift that wedged its way between them. One that seemed to taunt and rear it's ugly head at her every day when he would slightly recoil when she made contact with him or opt for quick, one-word responses rather than his usual communication with her. It broke her heart, but there is no way of forcing someone as guarded as Bill into opening up. Already, he's a master of concealing his emotions when he needs to, being strong for people when they can't be, so she had to work a little harder for that trust for those moments.

Their last few days with Warner were precious, the worry and impending terror of having to return to Derry and all, because the idea of leaving their baby across the country...it didn't sit well with either of them. After all, before they decided to visit Derry, they couldn't stand being away from him for longer than a few hours at a time when one of them absolutely had to be; so it wasn't shocking to everyone in the house when they started to become a little tense and desperate to spend every waking moment with him. Even Eddie took a step back from offering to hold him or do anything really while they got in as much time with their son as possible.

It was the little things that made their hearts warm with love for him though in those moments; his giggle when Bill gave him almost annoying, wet kisses all over his little face or the way he looked when he was sleeping in either of their arms like there was nowhere safer to be in the world. Those memories would keep them going when they were away from him.

And they do, now, as they're seated in the back of his parents' car with nothing to do but stare awkwardly out the windows and make idle talk when the silence gets too unbearable.

They took a flight from Seatle to Bangor, practically forcing themselves onto that plane with Warner at home in the hands of Bev and Eddie while the other Losers were at work, and ended up being picked up by his mother.

Sharon Denbrough was a kind, loving mother when Y/N met her at twelve-years-old. A woman with a passion for music and piano, an alumni from Julliard, she often heard the faint background noise of the piano in the parlor downstairs being played by her while the Losers hung out upstairs. The last time she saw her was their last year of college when they both returned home one last time for a visit before moving across the country to Washington. Much to Y/N's shock, she hugged her in the airport terminal after they arrived.

She hasn't changed much since the last time she saw her, only now strands of grey are beginning to become more prominent in her head of red hair and more wrinkles line her face than there were those five years ago. But she's still the Sharon she remembered from her childhood and young adulthood. Still had a hollowness to her that can only come from losing your child. A part of her still wonders why they couldn't heal, but then she gets to thinking about how she would be if Warner was taken from them and can't say much at all.

Derry, Maine has not changed a bit.

Snow blankets the front yard of his childhood home as the car pulls to a stop in the icy driveway, beside a second, newer looking car that he realizes must be his father's.

The cold air brings a bright flush to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and his nose; an intense red blooming over his pale skin with the first step out of the back seat and into the winter air. It's almost haunting to see this house again. It makes his chest feel like it's about to concave.

And as if she could sense it, the tips of Y/N's fingers breach the surface of his palm tentatively. Carefully, as if the past few days have made her wary of this kind of touch that usually is second nature.

He doesn't recoil.

Instead, he turns his head to meet her concerned eyes and lets his larger hand encase her's in return with a gentle squeeze of reassurance.  _I'm okay_.

The exterior of the Denbrough household is slightly weathered with age, probably their reluctance to repaint it or replace little things like window shutters or the windows themselves. It's nothing that could compromise the structural integrity, but only things that they're usually on top of themselves back home. Perhaps they've given up on all things outside of the absolute necessities. Seeing these little signs, the hollowness of his mother that hasn't yet disappeared and the somewhat beaten down appearance of their home, it makes him worry if there will be any progress on this trip at all or if they'll simply dismiss him as they always have.

"Your Dad invited Grandma and Grandpa over, I hope that's okay if you guys we're planning to have a night to settle in, they just wanted to see you so badly, Billy, you haven't been home in too long," Sharon says with a smile that Y/N can't help but doubt.

 _Yeah, well the whole visiting and phone call situation is a two-way streak,_ ** _Sharon_** _,_  she wanted to snap. She didn't. Neither did he.

The snow crunches under their feet on the walk to the front door.

"Yeah, no, its f-f-fine with me," Bill says with a shrug, trying to keep all of the new feelings that welled up inside of him in reaction to being back at bay.

It's warmer inside the house, so warm actually that they immediately strip off their coats and scarves and leave them beside the door with their suitcases.

The interior, unlike the outside, has been kept in shape in his absence.

Ornate rugs cover the hardcover floors that, the last time he was here, were previously left uncovered. They're soft beneath her socked feet on the walk from the front hallway into the parlor, which is pretty much a formal living room, where his father and Grandparents are sitting.

"Zach," His mom calls from the entryway with a tone that commands attention and respect without toeing the line of sounding rude as he often did when he tried to mimic it.

But even though he would never know, everything he says commands attention and respect. He doesn't even realize his charisma, but any of the other Losers could go on and on about it if you asked. He doesn't need tones of voice or a head held high, the very air surrounding him is electric.

His dad stops mid-sentence at the sound of his name, conversation with his own parents halting to a slow stop as he turns his eyes upon the sight of his son to find a grown man in his place. Bill was twenty-two the last time he saw him in person, just coming off of being a pubescent teen and still doning his baby face and lanky stature. Now, he's twenty-eight and in six days, on the fourth of January, he will be twenty-nine years old. The skin and bone that used to be all that his body consisted of is now lean with a smallish amount of muscle, rather than being the skinny and tall, gangly teenager as he once had been.

How fast would Warner grow up if he had turned from a boy to man right in what felt like the blink of an eye? That wasn't something he wanted to think about. He has a feeling they're going to be the kind of parents that have trouble letting go, unlike his.

"Bill!"

And with that, his dad's arms are wrapped around him in the short amount of time it took him to stride across the room. He's taller than Zach now.

"I've m-muh-missed you so much, Dad, I wish we could've brought Warner, but he's too young to travel and we don't want him to get s-sick or anything," He says as they pull back, a guilty look on his face.

Everyone else would perceive the guilt as him being sorry for not being able to bring their grandson but she knows it as something else. Guilt from lying to them.

They could travel with him, even if the thought makes them uneasy, but they didn't bring him because they swore they'd never let him set foot in Derry and they intend to keep that promise for the rest of their lives.  _Never_ , he told her Christmas Eve when they were deciding what to do,  _I won't let him know that town exists if that's what it takes_.

"It's alright, I'm just happy you're home. We have time to meet him."

The light in the room is warm and partly due to the fire blazing in the hearth on the wall across from where the couch and chairs are set up, the room bathing in swathes of orange light and the bright reflection off the snow coming in from the windows outside. It feels nearly stuffy in here and it makes her tug on the collar of her turtleneck.

Zach's eyes land on her.

"Y/N," He said with sudden recollection of the fact that, yes, she in fact did exist, "It's nice to see you again."

"Hello, Zach," She says awkwardly into his shoulder, "Nice to see you too."

A quick, concise hug works better them than the tight one she and his mother shared. She was always the one that liked her more, not that he didn't though. They were glad to find out that they ended up together but not nearly as glad as they would've been had Georgie never died.

Bill's heart feels a sudden sharp ache at the thought that forced its way into his head at the thought that name. He wonders how happy Georgie would have been since he always liked her in that year leading up to-he shoves that heartbreak far down and locks it behind a closed door rather than let it ruin an already nerve-wracking day.

This trip is going to be hard.

-

Smells of food wafting up the steps ended up being what got her to walk down the steps three hours later.

Dinner with his parents.

It almost made him chuckle to himself, straining to remember the last time he sat down to eat at that dining room table with them. But he waved Y/N on to go downstairs while he finished unpacking their clothes into the drawers of his old dresser.

It was strange to walk back into his bedroom after having been away from it for so long and yet, even with how cold home had felt to him after Georgie died, it still felt like his room. As if he'd just biked home from school and plopped his backpack on the floor, plopping down onto his mattress with a relieved sigh.

There were only a few things different. Almost all of his posters were gone, save the small cluster of them pinned to the back of his door that they didn't bother ripping down. Then, there was the closet that they changed; it used to be a wide but shallow closet with curtains to conceal the contents inside, only now they invested in sliding doors that he no doubt inspected with curiosity when he first walked in. They're all little things though, like the framed pictures he had on his bedside table that must have been stowed away somewhere (pictures he made a note to go looking for later), or his childhood toys he'd stored in a box beneath his desk out of his habit of hoarding things that disappeared. He didn't blame them. In fact, he's surprised they didn't turn his room into something more useful since he's been gone all these years.

His brother's room still remains untouched though.

The floorboards creak on Y/N's way down the stairs and to the living room.

It's like letting a fox roam loose in the hen house, being left to fend for herself with his family. It wasn't that they were ever rude to her to warrant such a reaction from her, yet more like an "I know what you did to your son and I fucking hate you for it" kind of discomfort that has her clenching and unclenching her fists in restraint. She was the fox, and they'd welcomed her in with polite smiles.

Although, Grandma and Grandpa Denbrough were not that bad.

She got along well with Jean, his- _their_ -grandmother, because of similarities in personality. Jean was very unlike her fellow Denbroughs in the sense that she had a soul that flickered like the flames of the fire burning in the parlor they sat in and she didn't take shit. She regaled stories of her protesting for women's suffrage when she was only twelve years old, seventy-seven years ago, and all of the other stories she'd never had the chance to tell her granddaughter-in-law because of the distance. One, in particular, was about the day Bill was born that she smiled all the way through. Any mention of his name had her beaming and it was clear to the only two people in the room; Jean and Erik (his grandfather) that their Bill had found someone who was absolutely gone for him.

They had met before, when they were only nineteen and it was one of the rare occasions where his parents actually brought them with them on a monthly weekend trip forty minutes out to see them, but the interaction was brief and she's changed a lot since then.

It wasn't until Sharon called up the stairs that dinner was ready that Bill came down, eyes tired and moving sluggishly from the seven-hour flight they endured today.

Plate piled with food and stomach practically aching to get something of substance in it after only eating a bag of chips and a water bottle on the plane, Y/N almost begins to inhale her dinner. She never knew they could cook well, never had had a family dinner with them before. The thought makes her frown.

"So," Zach says from across the table with a pointed glance at where she's shoveling down forkfuls of spiced basmati rice, "When did you get married?"

 _Oh, right, our rings_. They must have seen them or at least assumed with their baby and all...She lets the fork fall back from her mouth to inspect the ring on the hand she's holding it with. When you wear it every day, it's easy to forget it's there. Now that she's conscious of it, the weight feels noticeable even when she looks away to chance a glance at the silver band on Bill's ring finger. Her ring is a square cut diamond with small accents of garnet, his birthstone, along the band. Nothing too overwhelming or showy, but a reminder of that day where their lives became officially tied together. Unnecessarily huge rings were never her style anyway. It's simple and beautiful.

Y/N is still choking back an ungodly amount of rice in her mouth, so she raises her brows at her husband to take the lead on this one.

"Two y-years ago, our anniversary was a week after she gave birth to Warner," He says with a soft smile, memories of the night they got married flooding back to him, and takes a sip from his wine glass.

He's sat beside her, on her right, while Zach and Sharon are directly across from them at the table that she reckons is so old, it must have come down from generations before them. They used to do homework on this ancient thing. Grandma and Grandpa are sat at the ends of the table.

"You didn't invite anyone?" Sharon asked, frowning.

Meaning; you didn't invite your own parents to your wedding?

It hit him a little harder than he wanted it to. He never meant to hurt them but neither of them thought they'd want to come and despite the visit and the sudden flash of hurt on his mom's face...he still thinks they wouldn't have come if he asked.

Y/N finally swallows the food, silently swearing to not take such a ridiculous bite again, to speak. The look on his face was easy to read even if she was the only one in the room able to decipher the true expressions he did so well to mask.

"It was small, really small actually. We only had a couple of witnesses and it was on a whim. If it were an actual ceremony, I wouldn't have hesitated, Mrs. Denbrough."

It felt weird saying that last bit considering she's not the only Mrs. Denbrough in the room. But she shakes that thought off and fixes her eyes back on the plate with heaping servings of food that smells too delicious to ignore.

It was Erik that expressed his disappointment. Traditionalism was what he was raised on far back in the day, in the early twentieth century, and he often made judgments on their generation, as many older generations do. He and his son are alike in ways. They were both tough fathers. Zach had been tough, but fair before Georgie died. After that, all he ever did was go through the motions and sometimes he didn't even bother doing that. So why did they owe him an invite? There isn't a reason anyone could tell him that would be convincing enough.

"William, you got married on a whim?"

The sound of silverware tapping on plates stopped.

A flush spread across his face, "The wedding wasn't what r-r-really mattered to us, Grandpa. I'd still love her, wedding or not..."

It's the truth.

For a long while, they didn't plan to get married. Something about weddings seemed excessive and unnecessary and they were young anyway, so it hadn't been a concern. Until two years ago, when they were at some restaurant they passed by while walking through the city and while they were waiting for the check to come, she asked him if he would marry her. The next morning they honeymooned by locking themselves up in their bedroom with a bottle of wine and their new wedding rings. It's starting to seem that everything they do happens to spit in the face of tradition and they can't bring themselves to complain.

The sound of forks and knives lightly tapping on plates resumes and Bill is able to breathe again.

They already talked about Warner earlier, the first hour after they arrived and stood beside the untouched, dusty piano for long enough to make their legs cramp, but the conversation drifts back to their newborn baby every time.

It's the usual questions: Was he planned or a surprise? (They were a little shocked when they said planned but didn't say anything), What was her labor like? (Painful, but worth it), Who does he look more like? (Kind of Bill, because of his eyes, but all babies look like potatoes so who knows which one he'll end up resembling more).

"What was your pregnancy like?" It's beginning to feel like they're overcompensating for lost time when Sharon keeps pressing on, "When I was pregnant with Bill, he practically kicked a hole through my abdomen. He was always squirming."

Y/N smiles.

Pregnancy. She'd almost forgotten about the pregnancy once he was born as if all of those recent memories were pushed aside while she spent every waking moment with him. Now that she thinks of it though, she somewhat misses it.

Sure, there were some hellish moments and symptoms that made her want to cry, but the nine months she spent growing Warner inside of her was one of the most significant stretches of time in her life. She and Bill had never felt closer and for once, there seemed to be a road ahead of them. While there was somewhat of a path before him, like their careers and lives together, she doesn't think either of them knew the true meaning of the word purpose until he came into their lives. Her existence is Bill and Warner and that is all she needs to survive. So long as she has them, there will always be a road ahead.

A part of her will always miss those nights when they stayed awake talking to him with her shirt rolled up above her protruding belly, Bill's warm hands cradling her and whispering to their unborn baby. Those are the kinds of memories she'll forever cherish. But they intend, a year or two from now, to experience that again.

"I had a pretty smooth pregnancy. He gave me horrible food aversions though. I swear, I've never been a picky eater but he made me get nauseous all the time at my favorite foods. The doctor was worried I wouldn't gain enough weight," She says around a bite of pulled pork.

"Well, you certainly don't seem to have a problem gaining weight now."

That made everything in the room go a little too still.

Erik, of course, the source of the little snide comment, sits in his chair continuing on as if nothing had happened while she narrows her eyes at him.

What was it that made him so cruel? Was it being in his early nineties or the simple fact that she and "William" didn't stay in Derry, have a beautiful white wedding, and include them in everything? It's not like they wanted anything to do with him when he was grieving silently for years without anyone but his friends to help him through it. He reminds her of her witch of a Grandmother. She truly would be the type to kick a person when they're down as well, has proven to be actually.

It was hard to not let the insecurity of her postpartum body get to her, but the comment made her want to hide under layers upon layers of clothes.

Bill, on the other hand, is silently seething in his spot beside her. She isn't turned to see him, but his jaw clenches tightly and he retracts his hand from the table where it rested to get some kind of contact with her. His Grandpa was never deliberately kind but this? He wasn't expecting to have to deal with this and it makes him want to take her by the hand and walk her out that door back to Seatle. Anyone who messes with her...it's an effort to not want to verbally abuse his elderly grandfather. Knowing she already wasn't feeling like herself since she gave birth both emotionally and physically, he figures that kind of low blow hit her unexpectedly and probably threw a wrench in any of the progress she's made with accepting the changes to her body. Even if the only real changes were the stretch marks and five extra pounds, even if it didn't change his view of her, it mattered to her. It changed her own perception of her beauty and anyone with basic common sense can understand that someone's insecurity isn't something to play around with.

"It's crazy to think that you gave birth so recently, Y/N," Jean adds in with a very sharp look in Erik's direction, "You look so amazing for having a newborn son back home. I wasn't close to being back to my normal again until our son was a year old."

And he silently thanks whatever higher power was listening for Grandma Denbrough as his love's embarrassed, hurt face turns into a gentle smile and she sits up straighter in her chair. Perhaps she too was the girl once brought home and scrutinized under the harsh eye of in-laws. Or perhaps it was because of the spark she saw in her earlier that prompted her to blurt that out.

Tensions begin to dissolve and her hand moves to hold his where it grips her thigh beneath the table. There's a gentle squeeze on his hand.  _I'm okay_.

"Thank you, Jean," Y/N says, and looks Erik in the eye with a cold stare as she takes another especially huge bite-just for him.

And then their dinner resumes.

-

Morning light nearly blinds him when he blinks away the haziness of sleep and takes in his surroundings. He forgot where he was for a moment when he was hanging onto that thin thread between being unconscious and awake and instantly panicked, about to throw himself out of bed to search for where Warner was supposed to be in the bassinet beside them but-

The warmth of a body, familiar and inviting, is beside him instead and it's his childhood bedroom they're in, not their home back in Seattle. So, his chest deflates with that breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in and he slumps back down into mattress beside her.

Being back in this bed brings back a lot of memories with her; listening to music here in this room, sleepovers, late night talks, and other not so innocent things that make his lips barely curl up at the ends in a lazy smile. He used to be the one to wake up late, but as the years have gone on she's developed a habit of sleeping in later than he does if she can, so she's still sleeping soundly against his side when he looks over her.

The bed is small-smaller than he ever remembered it being, though that may be because they've grown since they were nineteen-and because of that they were practically on top of each other the entire night while back at home they have more room to breathe. But now that he thinks of it, they aren't really in need of as big of a bed as they have since they cuddle close all the time anyway. Nevertheless, one of his arms is pinned beneath her neck and cradling her shoulder while she sleeps with her face pressed into the bare skin where his shoulder and neck bridge together. And the feeling of her hot breath on his skin makes him want to shiver.

He remembers one particular weekend quite vividly and flashes of her and him together, nine years ago with wide eyes and shy grins, makes him want to pull her even closer.

Time alone together has been scarce in recent days for them so being here with her like this...he can feel himself falling for her over and over again. Like that same wide-eyed, lovestruck boy he'd been many years ago. And as he runs his ran up and down her back, his blue eyes trained on her closed ones, he remembers why his heart belongs entirely to her. Why it has always belonged to her.

Dinner was a frenzy of prying questions and a few jabs from his disapproving grandfather that they only made it through by the skin of their teeth. It had felt as stiff and cold as it had years ago, the only difference being that his parents were bothering to go through the motions. His mom had seemed at least somewhat genuine. He had always been a mama's boy before his family life was shattered and some of that connection still lingered, just barely hung on. For the first time in a long time, they were trying for him and the high he got from that alone would make someone think he found a way to make himself speak properly or protect his family from It forever. But it was only from a night of interaction, attention, from them. It makes him wonder how much happier life would've been as a teenager with good parents.

After everyone was done eating and talking for a long while after the food had vanished, they retired to his room for the night. It was hard to stop reminiscing about all the memories in this room when they were laying together last night. They had countless sleepovers with the Losers' Club in this room, stupid little games of Truth or Dare (one of which that ended with Richie and Bev running naked down Witcham street while everyone else laughed until they wouldn't breathe), days they spent locked up in here with only each other as company to pass the idle time. This room, this house-the whole damned town-had their history woven into it and everywhere they turn they see their past in front of them.

It's that that reminds him, after going so long without this precious time with her, why exactly they love each other so much. Merely thinking about all they went through together and did for each other...it awes him. It's hard to remember that spending your entire childhood, young adulthood, and adulthood with that one same person only isn't a common thing. Most people would have gotten sick of each other by now, but Bill can't get enough.

Their small fight the other day still lingers in the back of his mind and sometimes gets in the way when it pops up, yet with the feeling of her skin against his and her gentle exhales on his neck, the memory of the hurt and shame on her face when she was insulted at dinner and the instant need to hurt whatever could possibly upset her that rose up inside of him in response...he can't find it in himself to hold that grudge. Not against her.

The sound of her soft snores faltering catches his attention quickly though, pulling him from his thoughts, and he unconsciously tightens his arms around her.

"What time is it?" Y/N murmurs into his skin.

Her lips brushing his collarbone almost feel ticklish.

He casts a glance over his shoulder to the alarm clock on the bedside table. Considering the seven-hour flight and their general lack of sleep because of the living, breathing alarm clock that is Warner Denbrough.

"It's noon."

Her eyes open wide at first, her body jerking to get out of bed as he had this morning until-

"Hey, r-r-relax," His voice instantly makes her muscles unclench and her body ease back down against his side, "He's not here, remember? Eddie called an hour ago, said he was n-n-napping and was very cranky when he was fed this morning since he realized he's not getting the real deal shit."

This makes her snort with laughter. That sounds about right since the first time they fed him from a bottle, he held his lips together so tight they could barely get him to drink anything before they got him to break. He'll now deal with formula, albeit begrudgingly, rather than outright refuse anything that isn't breast milk.

She shuts her eyes and runs a hand along the length of his chest, humming in appreciation. Even if it's only been weeks, they haven't had so much time to burn as they do now in what felt like an eternity. Getting to enjoy little things like this makes her heart swell with happiness.

"Are you alright?" His voice is gentle with the words.

Y/N's eyes open to find him looking at her; worry lining his features. Her chin rests just above his nipple now and she looks at him with her head propped up on his chest.

"What? Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Now both of their faces are lined with worry and confusion and they're both looking to one another for an explanation. She goes first.

"It must be hard, coming back home and facing them like this. Having to see Georgie's room..." She steers away from that direction since his gaze diverted and chest stopped moving for a second at that, "Another reason I waited to tell you was because you'd been really happy lately, Bill, and seeing you upset is heartbreaking."

It wasn't her call to make, but he nods understandingly, his fingertips still drifting along the planes of her back. Knowing that it was a mistake out of love and compassion is enough for him to get over it. With him, she was never intentionally cold or malicious. Neither of them would ever do anything to hurt the other.

"I knew that once I told you, you'd regress and I didn't want to ruin your first Christmas with Warner."

And then he's right there, hand brushing back her hair and lips nearly brushing her face as she slides up to be closer to him, "I k-know."

"Bill?"

The sound of her whisper makes his stomach feel fluttery and light. It makes him want to kiss her for hours. He loves the sound of his name on her lips.

He gives a soft hum in response.

"I'm sorry," She says, "About hiding that from you. You deserved to know."

It surprises him a little. Maybe she wasn't on the same page as him, maybe he hadn't made it clear enough that everything was fine, that they were more than okay-

"I-I-It's okay. Don't worry about it," A kiss to the corner of her mouth, then he adds, "I think I'll manage to survive a little m-m-muh-miscommunication. I've survived a lot worse."

The last part puts a damper on the smile the kiss had put on her face.

Right, that was also another side of coming back to Derry. Everything that happened with It.

It would be a blatant lie to say her memory of what happened hasn't felt a little subdued over the last couple of years. You could blame it on time and distance, but before they entered Derry it felt like there was a layer of fog over all of her memories of It, and then the second they crossed into the town lines that layer disintegrated and her memory began to rush back to her. It wasn't that she forgot too much. None of them forgot the bigger details and basic happens of the summer, but some of the more minute details and memories seemed to evade them more each passing year.

"I was serious though," Y/N says into the small space between their faces, "Are you feeling okay, coming back here and dealing with all of this?"

And it's this that makes him melt, makes him want to crawl into her arms and never leave. Maybe it's an overreaction to something as simple as "how're you feeling", but it's not simple to him. After years of neglect, her caring about him and checking up on him the way she does feels like a kind of love he never dreamed of having.

She's laying on him now, the strands of loose hair that came out of her pulled back ponytail grazing him while his hands cradle her face. The midday sunlight coming in through the windows warms their skin.

"I'm okay, I p-p-promise...having you here helps a lot. It always has."

But before she can lean down to kiss him he opens his mouth to speak again, the hands on her face keeping her from chasing his lips.

"You never told me if y-y-you're okay. Since last night and Grandpa, what he said was awful and I know it h-hurt you," He says.

It did hurt her.

Typically, the opinions of people who don't even know her personally or who she doesn't particularly care for don't bother her, but it's been different since she gave birth to their son. There's still a lot of hormonal changes happening with her and she's been insecure about her body after all the changes it went through. A part of her doesn't even feel comfortable with him seeing her every so often and he's seen her body so many times that casual nudity is practically nothing to them. Except, to her, it's different now. Like when she was a teenager and had to cross her arms around herself or wear shirts when they went swimming at the Quarry to cover her scar.

"I'm alright now," Her eyes drop to focus away from him, "It was rude and, yeah, I guess it got to me a little bit. But I'm fine, you don't have to worry about me."

Even though worrying about his losers and caring for them to the point of selflessness was the only thing he knew how to do. Even though he'd never stop doing it.

"It's my job to worry about you," He murmurs and ducks his head to press a kiss to the underside of her jaw, her body instantly pressing down on him in response to it; desperate and sensitive after so much time, "It's my job to make sure you're feeling happy and loved..."

So she retorts back, "Well then I have to say I can't fire you. I am happy," A considering pause as she grins mischievously out of his line of sight, he's too busy pressing open-mouthed kisses to her neck, "And I am well loved, you're such a mother hen how could I ever go ten seconds without being fussed over."

"I'm n-n-not a mother hen-"

They both know that is not true.

"You so are and I could call any one of the Losers right now to get someone to back me up on this."

Bill grumbles something under his breath, feigning offense at the utter truth in what she said, and lets his head fall back onto the pillow with a soft smile up at her. His hands rub up and down where her thighs lay on either side of him.

There's a slight pause between them in the time it takes her to work up the nerve to say what came to her mind. He's the one who has no problem joking with her, taking her breath away with lewd little offers here or there. She has to gather courage whenever she does it. It's not that she's ready for actual sex with him just yet, but that doesn't mean everything is off the table.

"Physically though, I've really missed how  _well loved_  you can make me feel sometimes."

That definitely got his attention.

"Oh?"

She nods, hand drifting a little too low on him to be casual, "Yeah."

The amusement that reaches his eyes makes her pause and smile at him, at his upraised eyebrows and incredulously glance. She stares right back at him as if to ask what's got him so entertained.

"As much as I'd love to, m-m-my parents are down the hall, these walls are paper thin, and we both know we aren't q-quiet..." Bill says, practically grabbing himself by the scruff of his neck like a dog to keep himself at bay. He's already half-hard in his pajama pants.

"I can keep quiet, you're the loud one."

"No way, y-you were the one that woke Richie up that one time in college. Remember, he kept mimicking the way you s-s-sounded to annoy us for three fucking weeks and only stopped when Stan threatened to 'skin him alive with a spork if he heard one more exaggerated moan c-come out of him'."

"That was years ago! And we both woke him up, it was the headboard!"

"Don't even pretend I don't make you-"

Her hand closes over his mouth before he can finish that sentence. Partly because she wanted to, quite literally, wipe the smug look off his face, and mostly because they're now talking at full volume with these "paper thin walls" and by the time she realized it he was halfway through bragging about how good of a fuck he is.

They're both laughing hysterically and she can feel his chest moving with the sound beneath where she sits atop him.

For the moment, last night's dinner table fiasco and the general trauma of coming back to Derry disappears entirely. Right now it's only Bill and Y/N, nine years later, still locked away in his bedroom like they're the only two people in the world.

"It w-w-would be nice though. I've missed it too..." He trails off, his hands gripping her by her hips and his eyes falling over her figure through the shirt-his shirt-hanging off her frame and pair of cotton underwear.

"Then take me somewhere, Denbrough."

He furrows his brows at her and his eyes suddenly snap back up from where they were unashamedly checking her out.

"We need to get out of this damn house anyway, so take me somewhere," Y/N says, then mutters the next part only loud enough for him to hear, "Somewhere where we don't have to be quiet."

After he makes sure she has a pillow to bite down on and sinks down between her legs, making her wish she'd never sworn she was the one who could contain her noises; he pulls her out of bed, helps dress her (since he ended up making her legs tremble when she stood), and leads her down the stairs to make good on that request.

-

The sun is shining down on them as they walk along the sidewalks of Derry, Maine in the late December chill.

It's a New Years Eve today and though they had a bit of a late start, which was even later thanks to Bill, they still intend on enjoying all that their hometown has to offer on the last night of the year.

His family didn't have much of an objection to them going off on their own, in fact, it made her heart ache for him a little when they didn't seem to mind the prospect of his absence at all, but if it stung him, he didn't bother show it. He simply took her by the hand and lead her out to his dad's car.

That bitter interaction is far away now that they're strolling around Derry together, remembering where landmarks of their childhood were and small things that the foggy veil over their memory had kept from them. It felt strange to him that he never noticed those memories when they'd been gone, plucked right from his head, but so small and insignificant he could only notice if he actively sought them out. It put a sour taste in his mouth.

Storefronts are decorated heavily with wreaths and twinkling Christmas lights, festivity pouring out of every corner they turn down. They stopped at a few places along the way; Keene's Pharmacy (they weren't all that shocked to see that Mr. Keene still worked there since few people who grow up here actually leave-the Losers being an exception), they passed by the Aladdin Theater, pretty much went to a bunch if the little places they used to hang out at or pass by every day on their bikes.

"I think this was the street we were walking on when I kissed you for the first time."

Bill had been focused on passing cars and people. Trying to see if anyone there was anyone he used to know as a kid that he could recognize. There were only a few and they were all people he was barely acquainted with, people who didn't recognize the leader of the losers.

His smile is bright now as he turns to look at her again, her coat zipped up to her chin and face reddened from the cold, and then eyes the street in front of them.

This is the street they had their first kiss on. When they were walking home from the arcade a month after It disappeared and she grabbed him by the wrist so he'd stop walking and kissed him. It ended up taking a few months of awkward, fumbling encounters alone and in front of their friends, and a few more kisses before they made things official.

"Yeah, it was. I r-r-remember cause we were gonna go to the B-Barrens but you kissed me and we forgot all about it," He says, smiling at the ground.

They've been walking around aimlessly for over an hour now and the street they're about to turn right onto is entirely empty of people. But they're too caught up in their own conversation, too caught up in each other to notice...

"You took me back to your house and we played board games I think," Y/N interlaces her fingers with his, "And we didn't say a word the entire time. You were just sitting there, blushing, while I absolutely destroyed you in Monopoly."

"You didn't destroy me in Monopoly, I was distracted. You charmed me with your s-s-siren powers and cheated."

She throws her head back and laughs-a sound that makes his heart jump.

"You  _wish_ , you just can't handle the truth. I am the superior-"

Any color that was left on her face amid the chilled winter air, was leeched away when her eyes moved away from his face. It takes him a second of looking at her, hands seizing her immediately to see  _what's wrong, what happened, is she hurt, is she okay?_  But he got his answer when he followed her line of sight.

They turned onto Neibolt street.

The house on Neibolt street had only gotten worse in the fourteen years since they'd last gone inside of it, since they made it a point even when they lived here, post-It, to never go onto this street again.

It had slipped their minds and at one point he had been reaching the street signs to see where they were, but somewhere along the way he forgot about them and stopped caring until now. Until they're facing the home of the devil itself.

The air surrounding them turns even colder as they stand at the half-destroyed iron wrought fence separating the road from the snow-covered yard. It's been fourteen years since they stood at the front of this house. Fourteen years since he lead his friends in there to possible death to kill what had taken his little brother away from him. His fingertips glide over one of the fence posts, the iron freezing on his skin, as he recalls it. The flash of memory that he had forgotten after all these years; of him yanking free a loose, rusty fence post from this very fence to use as a weapon. His muscles tense as the crunch of a head being bludgeoned and a body hitting the floor resonates in the back of his mind, a body in a yellow raincoat, a girl screaming in pain, yelling his name-

_Bill Denbrough forced himself to stand with his back straight and head high as he dismounted Silver, his bike, and let his eyes fall upon It's house. He couldn't stop squeezing the handlebars until his knuckles went white on the drive over after an hour of rounding up his friends to walk into the belly of the beast._

August sun felt hot against his skin and for once he felt incredibly aware of his small existence. At how quickly it would be taken away if they weren't careful. He found himself savoring the way the sun felt on his skin because he wasn't sure he was going to live. Because he thought it might have been the last time he saw daylight. The grass, so unkept since the house had been abandoned for as long as he could remember, crunched like hay beneath his sneakers. Step after slow step he took until he was standing at the threshold of the property, his friends only now getting off their bikes since Silver always carried him along faster than their bikes did.

"How're you feeling?" It was a softer, sweeter voice that broke him away from his staredown with the house.

Y/N was practically glowing in the summer sun. And that too was a something he took a moment to savor. The sight of his best friend; hues of gold and brass and white shining off of her face and on her hair, the sun projecting its hues over them all. It was little things like the glint of concern in her eyes or the steadying hand he felt on his shoulder. That was when it occurred fully to him that he was risking the life of another person he-his train of thought halted and he righted himself so that he stood even taller-another one of his friends. But he never could lie to her.

"Af-f-fraid."

Then she nodded, her hand squeezing his shoulder tightly, and his head fell to look down at his feet.

"I think It's the one that should be afraid," a pause, "Us losers are a force to be reckoned with, Denbrough," She-

"That house never gets any less creepy no matter how long it's been."

Y/N's voice yanks him out of his trance.

He'd been staring blankly at the house while those flashes of memory kept bombarding him. It was just as grey and bleak and sinister as the last time he saw it. When he had been coming back to drive his bike home the morning she was in the hospital after they carried her, barely alive, out of the sewers.

Suddenly it feels like the world got smaller and he realized he'd taken a few steps closer to the house, through the open entrance of the fence, into the yard when he was stuck in his own head. It was going to get him, it was going to kill her and then track down his son and...He makes himself take a deep, deep breath before even daring to say anything.

"Can we please go s-s-somewhere else?"

-

The Quarry, at least, felt like a safe place to be unlike the other stop they'd taken on their tour of their hometown.

Well, it's technically her hometown. Her family had moved to Derry a year before the summer that still haunts them all and with all of the history she has here it'd feel wrong to call anywhere else but here her childhood home. Her parents moved a few states away from Derry after she left with Bill. They don't know she's here either. She didn't feel like seeing her mother, despite desperately missing her dad, nor did she feel like subjecting her husband to the kind of judgment she had experienced just last night at the dinner table. Because if she were to tell her parents she was in Derry, her wicked grandmother would know as well.

Bill had only met her once.

The interaction had surprised him. After hearing how awful she was, he was expecting to be torn to pieces on sight, especially since he wasn't exactly her mom's favorite choice of boyfriend for her daughter. But she was unnervingly nice to him. The fake kind of nice you can spot from a mile away. Judgment and an air of superiority about her buried beneath layers of fake smiles. Except he knew of all she did to Y/N's father when he married her mom. Of all of the fights and the lies, how she tried to control their marriage and their family as if she were the third parent. The time she showed everyone on her side of the family a private letter he'd written her about her daughter's affair. The time she lied to his brother in law and told him that her dad was the one who cheated, not her mother, and thus ruined their friendship forever. Because after that, that brother in law who he was once very close with never fully trusted nor respected him again. And every time her grandmother smiled at him, he could hear all of those stories in the back of his head and knew later, after they left, she'd probably be talking about him behind his back like she did with everyone else in her life.

He didn't protest when Y/N told him she wasn't going to let her parents know she came back. He didn't blame her.

"It's not  _that_  bad of an idea," She says, considering his offer, "But it's freezing enough up here and the water would only be colder."

Bill's hand is resting on her back, trying to pull her closer to the path leading down to the water.

"But it'll be f-f-fun and we have a blanket in the car for when we get out to dry o-o-off."

"Plus, I'm not trying to die of hypothermia and leave Warner in the hands of Richie! Richie, the one who almost dropped him when he was only three days old."

The mentioning of Warner make his heart ache, reminded again that he can't see him for another four days, but he goes on anyway, taking her cold hands in his.

"And E-Eddie, who adores him so much he would probably steal him and raise him as his own if he didn't l-luh-love us too much already. And Beverly and Ben and Mike and Stan."

They spent a few minutes inside the car when they first got here, savoring the heat, but after they got out and walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the water of the Quarry did he suggest they go swimming. In  _December_.

"But still, I'm not in the mood to get hypothermia today and even if our baby would be in good hands I don't wanna freeze to death," She says, looking up at him with a pleading face.

A particularly cool gush of wind blows her hair slightly, the temperature biting at her skin. Even as someone who doesn't really mind the cold, this is a bit far. Bill's usually the one who hates winter, so she was surprised when he suggested swimming in the freezing cold water.

Partly, it's for the sake of nostalgia. Because a lot of the time they spent with their friends and with each other was here. Just standing at this cliff makes him feel overcome with the memories of the losers spending their summers swimming and hanging out by campfires here. But for her...

Y/N glances away from him for a moment, her lips pursed, and her eyes find a spot down by the water. A flat plane of rock where they always used to swim by...

_It was early October, when the air still felt like summer and, despite school, the losers wanted to make up for all the time they lost that summer to fighting It by treating the weekends like their summer-the summer they deserved to have instead of the terror they endured._

So, they spent most of their time swimming at the Quarry, going to the arcade, and the movies when they could come together with enough money to do so. Their "summer" had been better than any summer before, with the exception of their slow recovery from everything they went through. On that specific day, they were swimming at the Quarry.

It felt near boiling if you weren't taking a dip in the cool, refreshing water her friends were in, but she was stuck on the sidelines. It didn't bruise her too much to have to keep away from doing the activities her friends were partaking in. Sure, seeing them having fun and splashing around in the cold water while she sat in that ungodly heat was horrible at times, but she felt lucky to be alive. A month and a half since the surgery that saved her life after It had cut her open and she's still recovering. Still wearing a bandage wrapped around her abdomen under strict orders to not: do any heavy lifting, put any pressure on her abdomen or go swimming. Showers were fine, but swimming in the Quarry where her wound could get infected was another thing. Plus, even if she were stupid enough to try and break that rule, Eddie would have tackled her before he let her get infected.

Ben had brought his boombox and Bill brought his own tapes to "keep Ben from playing New Kids on the Block on loop for hours straight", so naturally, The Psychedelic Furs were playing through the speakers sitting ten feet behind where she was perched at the edge of the rock; at the lowest point close to the water with her feet dipped in. They had set up base at a low, almost beach-like spot at the water level, but instead of sand there was a flat plane of rock where they dumped their clothes and backpacks and boombox before they jumped in. She was busy sunbathing with her eyes fluttered shut and marveling at her stuttering friend's surprisingly great taste in music to pay attention to her losers.

There was enough going on inside her head to keep her busy anyway.

It had been a week since she kissed Bill. It was abrupt and quick, she didn't even think he'd do it back. But he did. He kissed her back and they haven't uttered a word about it since. The six days since "the incident" (as she grew accustomed to referring to it as in her mind) held a strange sense of normalcy she hadn't expect for having just kissed her friend. For having been kissed back by her friend. Instead of talking about it or doing anything at all, they went about their lives as usual. Which mostly consisted of school and other things; other things being waking up in a cold sweat from their horrific night terrors and sleeping with baseball bats tucked under their beds. But there was a palpable difference in the energy that surrounded them when they were together following that day. It felt alive with electricity whenever they stood too close or accidentally brushed up against each other.

What made it worse was that he was infuriatingly  _helpful._

Since she was still recovering from what It had done to her, even if she could move around just fine, the losers had to help her out. And anytime she needed something, he's right there. It makes her seethe. All week she'd done everything in her power to avoid him since what happened with them and it's been impossible. Her backpack must have weighed at least ten pounds and the doctor told her to avoid lifting anything remotely heavy until he gives her the go-ahead; so Bill was always there to take her bag and carry it on his free shoulder. Pedaling a bike was too much physical exertion according to the doctor and her parents and since Silver was the only one of their bikes able to seat two; he drove her everywhere with her arms wrapped around him. It made her blood boil. How dare he be so kind and sweet and accommodating? How dare he do that and then turn around and act like their kiss never happened? So what if she had avoided talking about it too, so what if she was a hypocrite, she wanted him to do something!

Looking back on it now though, she can admit her fault.

The end of summer weather in northeastern America could happen in the blink of an eye. One day in October it could be eighty or even that day's ninety-three degrees, then the next fall could begin before you could register the change. That's why they savored the time they had left of their summer while they could to do normal teenage stuff no matter how odd it felt after the experience they had during the real summer.

Y/N's smile began to disappear when her soft humming to the opening of "Love My Way" was interrupted by the sound of water splashing closer to her. A sound that had been farther away the last time she bothered to listen.

When she opened her eyes, Bill Denbrough was swimming into shore (more like swimming into rock) and was straying far from where the rest of their friends were chicken fighting in the middle of the Quarry.

Something between them had changed though, way before the kiss or this week, but back in that cistern. Back when he was prepared to cleave the world in two for her. Because of this, she stayed in the same position with her sunglasses in place and feigned disinterest. She didn't like how different things were. Of course, she liked kissing him. Hell, she initiated and was the reason things we're so off very recently, but there was nothing she could do to change what him doing what he did for her did to them. That was all on him. So perhaps they were both to blame.

"It must s-s-suh-suck to have to hang out in the heat while we swim," He said by a way of greeting, "I swear you've tanned s-so much since h-h-having to sit on the sidelines."

She stayed, lazily moving her legs in the water in front of her with her head tilted towards the blue sky above. Almost as blue as his eyes. It was hard not to frown at that though, and the restraint she had to exert in not searching for his eyes to confirm the thought. That would be too tempting.

A hard tug on her right ankle that had her slipping forward to the edge of the rock made her pay attention though.

"You cranky or something? I'm a wounded girl, Bill, you wouldn't want to get me infected. Eddie would have a fit."

Her gaze finally found him after a few seconds of slipping the sunglasses off her face and working up the nerve to meet his eyes. It didn't prepare her.

Bill was looking up at her with a quirked brow, water bobbing at his collarbone at where her legs were submerged. Her stomach felt like how it had when she went on a rollercoaster for the first time at the county fair with Stan and Mike.

"W-W-What makes you think I'm cranky?" He says with a soft laugh, gliding through the water to be on the other side of her.

His hands were still holding her legs and it made her feel even warmer.

"Call it a gut feeling."

But then there was the sight of that smile and his shoulders barely shaking with a laugh and her cool exterior instantly crumbled. Who was she kidding?

Bill seemed to see the mask fall, as if it were a real one that they'd hear clattering to the rock she was sat on, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. He didn't let her see that though.

"R-Richie won't stop cracking dirty jokes about you, just so you know. He t-t-takes you sitting back here as a get out of jail free card with dirty humor," He said and hefted himself onto the ledge she was perched on.

The sound of water rushing off of him in heavy droplets interrupted the music for a second, the patter of it distracting her from even one of her favorite songs, and she scoffed at the thought of the Trashmouth doing such a thing. It didn't come as much of a surprise considering the fact that he was called "Trashmouth". A lot of people didn't know what to make of his comments, but the losers always knew he was only joking. These comments typically never offended her.

"You expect that to surprise me?"

An amused exhale, "Y-Y-Yuh-You know Richie well, It'd be more of a surprise if it s-surprised you."

Silence fell immediately after the words left his mouth, suddenly at a loss for what to talk about outside of their close-knit friends. Conversations they had usually flowed without issue. Her knuckles whitened as she remembered the way they were able to talk before she kissed him. Where his hands had lingered on her legs still burned.

Bill and Y/N were sitting at the edge of the Quarry water, so close that their legs were nearly pressed together, while they faced the consequences of their avoidance. Water still dripped from his hair that seemed much darker than its usual color after his dip in the water. Usually his mahogany color was very noticeable, but when he got his hair wet she found that it made him look brunette.

"Are you rec-c-covering easy?" He offers, trying.

The mentioning of her wound only reminded him that he was technically to blame. She went in there because I asked her to. She got hurt because of me. The thoughts were like poison to his mind.

"Uh, yeah. Soon, I'll be able to carry my own bag and pedal a bike all on my own again so you'll be free of that at least."

She chuckled to herself while saying it, obviously kidding since he only did it because he wanted to, but he took it literally.

The sun shined brighter with his words.

"Then w-w-what will I have as an excuse to follow you around all day?"

Her eyes whipped over to search his face for any sign of humor but...he was genuine and it occurred to her how close he was. How close her felt to the point where she could nearly feel the water dripping from him and onto her that kept missing her by only a fraction of an inch. The sun was beginning to dry him off at least.

"Why would I make you give an excuse?" Y/N said, not breaking eye contact, "Who's to say I don't enjoy your company? I mean, well, you know well enough..."

It felt like she was stuck in her place when he turned more towards her, their eyes still locked on each other. You know well enough...the kiss had told him enough. Even if they hadn't necessarily talked it out, their actions a week ago had done all the talking.

The music seemed to swell when he made the move to kiss her.

And her world felt twirled and spun three times too many when his lips met hers again; a feeling she feared she would never feel again after the incident the week before. The feeling of his skin, slick with water, underneath where her hand gripped his shoulder made her have to squeeze him harder. It was then that she realized, he never made a move because they were always with their friends and this was the only chance he had to seek her out alone. Kissing Bill Denbrough felt like grasping at the stars, freedom and happiness as boundless as eternity.

The sound of the music drowned out the padding footsteps that were approaching their camp from behind them, so for a long while Beverly stood in silent shock as they kissed, softly and experimentally in the summer sunlight. One of the first of many to come for many years...

"Holy shit."

They both jumped apart instantly at the sound of their friend's disbelieving tone from only a few feet behind them.

Bev had watched it happen. She had seen him kiss her and had see the interaction...It was common knowledge, Bill and Y/N's closeness, but none of them would have expected to see that happen. Especially so soon. Their friends had taken wagers on when exactly their two oblivious idiots would figure it all out, since they could tell from the start that what drew them together wasn't just friendship, but a lot of them had bet on a time far, far into the future. Stan was the only one who bet it would happen in the span of the next year.

Bill's bottom lip was red and it trembled as he struggled to say, "B-B-B," He had to stop, "B-B-Beverly, please don't-"

But the loud bustle of their friends approaching made him halt. She could decipher that. Beverly, please don't tell them. Don't ruin a relationship that hasn't even begun by exposing this. It almost stung her that he would even think she'd tell someone about the little moment she intruded on.

But their fire-haired friend turned on her heel to meet up with the rest of their Losers, not saying a word.

"Y/N."

His voice feels far away when she finally hears it. Like he'd yelled at her while she was underwater.

"Y/N," Bill says loudly this time, his tone hard and commanding. His hands were on her shoulders. When had he begun to shake her?

And it manages to make her tear her eyes away from the spot to look back up at him. It still feels slightly hazy though, almost like waking up from a dream.

Her shoulders drop from where she'd been holding them up straight with a heavy exhale. The memory had made her feel trapped. Trapped in the past, when they were still thirteen and the scar on her body was barely healed yet. It was hard for her to pull herself out of it. Just like what happened back at the Neibolt house to Bill, she had been in some kind of a trance. It's an effort to not glance back at the spot by the water they always used to relax by, but she's afraid it'll send her back. And the past isn't something she wants to confront. It isn't something either of them want to confront. Even now, Bill is struggling to keep those memories in the back of his mind safely locked away. The sound crunching sound of metal hitting flesh, a yellow raincoat, a young girl's bloodcurdling scream-he shuts it all behind a locked door.

Her features soften for a moment, her heart still aching from the sweet memory of where everything they have began. Where Warner became a possibility. The familiar weight of his hands in her's makes everything feel steady and safe.

A soft grin crosses her face.

"Okay, we'll swim. But only five minutes," She caves, still practically recoiling at the thought of how cold it's gonna be, "Any longer and it'll probably be dangerous."

There's snow on the ground and they're going  _swimming-_ she shakes her head, chuckling to herself. Bill has that kind of charisma that's dangerous. The lovely kind that can get you to follow him anywhere. Even into hell.  _What's the harm of going for a little dip in the Quarry anyway_ , a voice in the back of her head whispers. He and Richie were the two losers who could get any of them to do any crazy thing they wanted if they tried hard enough. There was something inspiring about his bravery, even with stupid things like going on rollercoasters Eddie swore up and down we're deathtraps when they were teenagers. Something about it makes you want to join.

He smiles at her. A beautiful, stupidly in love smile that makes her want to kiss his stupid face and drag his stupid body back to the car to kiss him until their lips are numb. She's missed him desperately.

And then they're running, racing each other- she thinks-, down the path to the water. The air rushing past her face makes color bloom on the tip of her nose and it flows beneath her clothes, making goosebumps rise in its wake along her skin. Trees stripped of leaves or any sign of life blur in their peripheral vision and she can hear him laughing a step behind her. Though he could beat all of them in a bike race because of how fast Silver was, she was the fastest on foot. They used to race down their street with Georgie before everything happened and when she didn't let his little brother win, she was always fastest.

By the time they make it down to the bottom, they're both heaving for breath, her practically doubled over because that was probably the most exercise she's gotten since before she got pregnant. As she's catching her breath though, that memory comes back to her. It's almost shocking how vivid it is. She remembers everything about that day now when just last week those thoughts had been shoved back so far she couldn't have remembered them this clearly if she tried as hard as she could've. They'd been sitting right here fourteen years ago.

"Do you remember it?"

Y/N's voice makes him stop as he's taking his shoes off, looking up at her with a lifted brow.

Upon seeing his confusion, she elaborates, "Up at the top of the cliff, I looked down at this spot and remembered when we kissed here. It was after the first one, when we were still not talking about it and hadn't told our friends yet."

Bill's face flashes with something like recognition and fondness, then he offers, "W-When Bev saw us?"

She looks down at her own feet, still pulling herself out of the past, and kneels down to unlace her boots. Something didn't feel right-about the "new" memories. Why hadn't she been able to access them before? Why hadn't she remembered that day until she came back her and saw where it happened? There were other memories she had of Derry so why is it that other, more specific ones, felt so far away until she returned to Derry. It simply doesn't make sense. Her right boot is discarded behind her with a loud thump.

"Yeah," Her tone is soft, "It's strange, but I feel like I've been remembering things I didn't before. Ever since we came back...have you?"

He's stripping down as well, but his eyes are on her, filled with concern. When she had zoned out up by the cliff it scared him. He took her by the shoulders and shook for at least ten seconds before she seemed to realize what he was doing. His belt falls to the ground as well, buckle rattling against the rock.

His face hardens for a second, what happened on Neibolt street coming back, and says, "Yeah. I guess so."

"You don't think we actually were forgetting do you? That because we're adults It is making us..." It wasn't hard to hear her voice waver when mentioning the monster.

He considers it.

None of the adults cared when they were younger. About the missing children or the peril they were so obviously in. For that year, it seemed that they all turned a blind eye to their kids. But why? Could It even control that many people? The most he knew it could do was shapeshift, not control minds. But as he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Every single adult had turned their attention away while it preyed on their kids. If it could make only them see the blood in Beverly's bathroom, while her dad never saw a thing, could it have controlled their parents to an extent? It unnerves him because she's right.

A lot of old memories had come rushing back on their tour through Derry. The time he stole his dad's gun and marched over to Neibolt with Richie, ready to kill the thing that killed his brother. The week he'd spent locked in his room after Georgie died. After coming back, it was clear that he'd let a lot of that year slip his mind. But he only figured it was the time and distance taking those away from him, but if what she said were true? If It could still have a hold on them even while it hibernates for the next thirteen years, he wouldn't know what to do. What would that mean for Warner, if they were still under It's grasp? If it could control the parents of its targets then their son would be in grave danger if he ended up here.

"M-Maybe..."

It makes him start to worry, start to wish he'd never come back in the first place. His hands are itching to hold their baby, but he can't. He settles for walking over to her.

"Well, " She says under her breath, "It isn't here. It won't be here for another thirteen years so it can't be doing this. Right?"

He says with a nod, "Yeah," even though he isn't quite convinced.

The skin of her lower back is exposed by her top, which began to ride up her back when she shrugged off her coat and bent down to remove her shoes, and his hand is freezing against the warm stretch of skin. It makes her jerk away from the contact at first. His fingertips are already red and he has no doubt jumping into the ice cold water will only make it worse.

Even he questions why he does these kinds of things, especially when it's something Richie ropes him into and he takes a step back to wonder why he's so reckless with almost everything in his life. He used to ride Silver so fast and dangerously, his dad told him he'd end up "killing himself on that thing". It was an empty comment of course, no real fatherly concern showing behind it, but it was true. Why was he always ready to toe the edge of death? Even if swimming in winter wasn't riding a bike in a way that nears suicidal or throwing himself at the dangerous supernatural creature that murdered his brother, it still makes her wonder why. Why is bravery that is so unflinching it almost becomes stupidity so deeply rooted in him? Why has it always been?

There's a small pile of clothes beside their feet, their coats and shoes and shirts dumped on the ground while they shimmy out of their pants. It'd be stupid to jump in with all of their clothes. The cold water would soak through them and keep them frozen long after they got out of the water.

After kneeling down beside the water and sticking her hand in, only left in her undergarments, Y/N winces, "Bill, this is ridiculously cold! You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

He laughs, almost out of pity-she looked so done with him he considers scooping her up in his arms and carrying her back to the car, but while they undressed he asked her multiple times if she wanted to and she had said yes. She does want to go swimming, it's just that her body not wanting to die of hypothermia is urging her to run from the water.

"Why w-w-would I, of all people, be trying to kill you? I don't know if I'd be able to fuh-function without you."

And in the moment she takes to be touched by the last part, he lifts her up from where she was crouched and jumps into the water with her in his arms, sounds of her laughter at him throwing her over his shoulder disappearing into the water.

The shock of the temperature sucks the breath away from her at first and for the first few seconds that they're under, at a depth where he's the only one able to stand, her heart races. It's a cold so biting, she's surprised she's able to move. Water rushes along her skin as she kicks blindly for the surface.

It has been roughly six years since they've gone swimming at this Quarry. Except all the other times they'd done it, it was summer weather and not the weather of a snowy December. Neither of them cares less though, not now that they're already in.

"Holy s-s-shit," Is the first thing she hears when she breaks the surface, "Suh-So f-fuh-fucking f-freezing."

After wiping the water from her eyes, she swims the few feet through the water to him since she's not able to stand at this depth and is desperate to be closer to him for any last attempt at conserving heat she has left. His shoulders are trembling and slick with water when her hands grip them to keep herself upright. It's hard to tread water when it's so cold. His arms wrap around her instantly, an action her never has to think about to do at this point, and he feels her shaking laughter against his chest.

"I feel like my limbs are going to freeze off," She barely can say without laughing.

But he's focusing on her, the beauty of her in his arms, the light that reflects off the snow on the ground and the water all around them illuminating her. She's a shivering mess, but he can't seem to keep his thoughts straight when she's looking at him like this and holding him so close. Even while it does feel like his limbs will freeze off, she's the one holding his attention and it's almost infuriating how much he feels himself falling for her.

Y/N is face to face with him, a smile on her face as their shivering bodies make their noses brush, "I hate you."

Bill laughs, a sound she wishes to hear for the rest of her life, already regretting his decision to come in here despite having her seated so closely against him. The water really is a terror.

"I h-hate you tuh-too, " He murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to her lips that makes them both hold on a little tighter.

When they pull away, she's the one to speak first; shivering and clinging to him still. Their lips are blue.

"I miss him."

The feeling of his arms tight around her makes her head spin and she rests it on his shoulder as the words leave her. The sound of water gently lapping against the rocky shore nearby lulls her into a sense of calm after having a heart beating so fast it's speed nearly became worrying. It was probably just the shock of the temperature, nothing more, but it took a moment for it to slow.

It isn't hard for him to figure out who "him" is.

Bill runs a hand along the soaked head of hair pressing against his cheek, shivering slightly against the body wrapped around him.

Missing Warner has been killing him. It's only been two days and he's already taking up half of his thoughts, but him staying home is better than the alternative. Him coming here. Into the dangerous place they and their friends narrowly escaped death in as children. It would delight in killing his son and, knowing that, he kept him in the hands of trusted friends rather than bring him along. Already, the memory of It haunts him, and her, and he's not sure they'd be able to care for him with all that's been coming back to them. They made the right choice. We made the right choice, he repeats in his head whenever he longs to feel the familiar weight of his baby in his arms, He's safe there. But there's a spot deep inside of him missing. A void that he'd forgotten was there before Warner existed. Nowadays, it's been hard to remember what life was like before Warner. Now, it feels as if he's always been with them and he can't imagine a future without him.

"I miss him t-t-too," Bill says holding her against him, still and silent save for her trembling from the cold, he adds on, "I miss our spawn."

And then she's moving again, wiggling from the steady strength of his arms and splashing the ice water up at his unsuspecting face. Her laughter peeks through the cruel splash.

"Don't call him our spawn. Come on, Richie already does it all the time, you'll only encourage him."

That smile blooming against her face betrays the words. It was the thought of their son in their friends' arms, the happiness and warmth of their real family surrounding him, that made that smile appear. He fit in with them so easily. God knows they all adore him, spoil him even. Especially Eddie. She supposes it's because he's  _Bill's_  kid. He'd love any of the Losers' children, but it's different when it comes to Bill Denbrough. There always was a certain kind of worship Eddie bestowed upon their unofficial leader. An unhealthily unconditional kind of worship that was different than the love he felt for his six other friends. That's why Warner was different, for him. Because he was Bill's. And along with that, he was her's. Both of them two people he's loved since childhood.

He swims forward to try to get a hold on her arm or hand or leg, something to tug her back into his arms.

This alone time has made him positively ravenous. When he isn't thinking about missing Warner or the past, he's thinking about getting his hands on her for the first time in months. He's been thinking about the strength of the love beneath the surface of his skin, how evident it is when they aren't so preoccupied. He almost had forgotten how well they worked. Typically, he isn't one to use the word soulmates, always found it stupid and kind of juvenile, but it sounds fitting for what they have. It is what they have.

As he looks at his wife, her face shining with something a lot like admiration and a soft look of sweet emotion swirling in her irises, he can feel that there's something bonding them together; soul deep. It's evident in the way they look at each other, as if words are below them and they can communicate with mere glances and touches. If there's anything this trip is doing, it's solidifying that bond. It's making them remember where it started and why. Why there together and why they've survived so long.

Bill ducks under the surface, the cold, cold water kissing every inch of accessible skin when he submerges himself and peeks open his eyes to find her swimming back; aware that he's trying to grab her. He can hear her laughter muffled through the water and kicks forward, reaching out with a long arm to try to grip her ankle, but she laughs and floats just out of the reach of his fingertips.

He wants to wipe that smirk off her face. (Well, the smirk he  _suspects_  is on her face).

It feels so freezing, the water, wrapping around his bones and muscles and skin like a vice, yet he still manages to cut through it swiftly. He has the advantage here anyway, he can stand while she's left to only swim. But for some reason that annoys him to no end, she's faster and slips from his fingers every single time. At this point she's teasing him, laughing in amusement from above, and he doesn't even mind. He's too busy trying to get his hands all over her to be insulted by how easily she can render him this way; scrambling and desperate.

It's when he breaks the surface that she really teases him through.

"Guess you'll have to catch me," She says with a gentle shrug, sitting along the edge of the rocky coast just as she had all those years ago, him desperate for her attention at her feet, and pushes up from the ground to go running for the car.

The water drips from him in one large rush when he hurries from the lake, knees scraping the rock when he crawls up from hands and knees to standing on two feet until he's sprinting forward after her with a soft grin. It's the air that's cold now, working together with the water lingering on the surface of his skin to properly freeze him to death on the mad dash up the steep incline to the top of the cliff. How is she so damn fast? It makes him push a little harder, the frozen, dry air he's inhaling feeling like glass on it's way into his lungs. A flash of her hair stark against the dull winter scene before she's turning left at the top of that cliff.

"S-Slow down!" He manages through a soft chuckle and his best effort at sprinting.

Then he's vaulting over that last steep grade of the hill up to their car and sees her, just a few steps ahead, and makes his move to grab her.

They're both sent crashing against the hood of the car when he gets to her and their lips hurt with the sheer force of the collision. So, they pull back on that a bit, the eagerness that drives them to be too hasty, and kiss with a passion that is less vitriolic and just more needy. Considerate, but downright hungry. Her nearly naked back jerks forward from the cold bite of the metal and into him, the water slick surface of his chest pressing into her until she's pinned between him and the car. The cold is so unbearable but Bill-his hands sliding along her body, his lips distracting her from that misery of winter's weather. He's a sweet, sweet pain reliever. He makes her forget about the hard packed freezing dirt beneath her bare feet or the air surrounding their shivering bodies.

In between those desperate kisses, he stammers out, "S-S-Shuh-Should get in the c-car."

Then she whines into his mouth, her arms tightening around his shoulders and neck- _No, right here. I want you right here, I don't want to wait. Please_.

But he shakes his head against her kisses and merciless hands that are searching over his body.

"I d-don't wanna f-freeze, Y/N, no matter how hard it is t-t-t-"

He sighs out through his nose, frustrated with the roadblock that is his speech impediment. It always gets worse in these kinds of moments. Moments he wishes he could be smooth and deft in.

She just runs a hand down the length of his arm in response. Understanding.

It makes him want to weep with relief every time she does something like that. Even though it's so simple, it says so much. His friends too can get him like this, can understand him on a level most people can't. But she gets him in a way no one can. Always has.

It's only now that it registers how damn cold it is out here, once he isn't pressing her into the car and surrounding her with his love and his kiss and his touch. Her teeth clatter together every second. He isn't as cold as she is, but he's panting, sucking down breaths of the winter air, exasperated from the run and from. Well, from her. From today in general. Their morning had gotten them off to an intimate start and it only feels more promising from what just went down against the hood of the car.

She isn't sure yet about... _that_. Actually having sex again. But it doesn't mean everything is off limits. It means they have fewer options, but letting this free time without interruptions from their six housemates and baby go to waste would be a crime.

The car door creaks when it opens and shuts, the both of them hurrying inside with blue lips and red tipped ears.

It takes a moment for them to get situated. The blanket is in the back seat so she's crawling over him to grasp it while the engine turned over and heat begins to permeate the air trapped inside the car.

She wants to hold him here forever. She wants him forever, wishes she could wrap her arms around him and never let go. That's the first thought in her head when she settles back down from retrieving the blanket, her legs straddling his lap and her eyes falling onto his bright blue ones.

"I want you forever," Y/N murmurs loud enough for her words to only read his ears.

The confession makes his heart swell with love. It was so casual and yet, to him, it feels like the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. I want you forever. The words resonate with him. His eyes flicker over the figure straddling him, his head leaned back against the headrest as awe swirls inside of him.

Her shaking hands hold the blanket in place around them and because of how small it is, it forces them closer. So close that her soaked bra brushes his chest with every hard pant they take.

"Y-Y/N," Bill's voice wavers with the word.

The fabric of the blanket is fuzzy against his arms, where her hands hold each side of the swath of green fabric in place against his shoulders.

She lets the left hand that's still holding that blanket edge run up the base of his neck experimentally. How did a few months make them feel so timid with each other in this way? Usually, they're so sure and confident with this, but right now it feels like one of those first nights they spent together during that weekend nine years ago. Her fingertips cards through the damp locks of hair, going up up up until she can get a decent grip on it. And, very carefully, gives it a tug so his head tilts back further. His neck is a delightful canvas of pale, untouched moon-white skin and it's so perfectly displayed for her.

For a long moment, she hesitates.

It's been a long time since she's been with him. This morning was pure bliss and he's always so hellbent on her pleasure, her enjoyment, that by the time they had to get out of bed to go about their day she hadn't had her turn with him. So, right now she's determined to make him feel as good as he made her feel earlier. Gasping and balling up the bed sheet into her fist while he made her come undone with his face buried between her legs. The hesitation is so she can burn the image of him into her memory. Bill, his blue eyes wild with desperate longing, mouth barely parting in anticipation. Does he know how unbelievably overwhelmed he makes her when he looks at her like that; up through his lashes, chin jutting forward in an attempt to get his lips closer to her's while she has his head tilted back against the headrest.

In an attempt to snap her out of her trance, he says, "I'm yours," A pause and his gaze softens, "forever."

Y/N gives him one hell of an afternoon.

-

They returned back home later that night, just as the sun was starting to dip below the horizon, trying to act casual, deciding that they'd tell his family, if they asked, that they went to a movie and lost track of time exploring Derry for the first time in years. Which was only half true. They technically did lose track of time and before they ended up huddled together in the front seat of the car for the afternoon, they were exploring Derry.

Bill was properly disheveled on his way into his parents' house. His hair dried with her hands running through it and so it looked like exactly that; like someone had been tugging and carding their hands through it all night. His lips were bright red and kiss-swollen and there was a small, purple bruise on the base of his neck that his jacket collar thankfully managed to conceal from his family.

On their way up the stairs, he kept whispering in her ear about how obvious it was, much to his mortification, to which she responded with a sorry smile. The flushed face was excusable because of the winter weather. The mark on his neck was covered. His lips? That was a little harder to excuse. His hair? It wasn't enormously subtle. She tried not to feel secondhand embarrassment from the look on his mom's face when she saw her son walk in the door looking like  _that_. Just thinking of it on the way up the stairs made her want to cringe. She tried to assure him that it wasn't too bad, but he'd caught a glimpse of himself in the car's mirrors and knew he looked like he just got fucked.

Bill wanted to turn invisible when all of the eyes in the room turned his way. It was funny, he'd been invisible to them all of his life and the one moment he wanted it...before that thought could process, he shook his head and ascended the last few steps to the second floor of the house.

-

New Years Day, and the next two days following it, passed by with a lot less to occupy their time other than go through the box of old VHS tapes he had years ago and watch movies to avoid running into his grandparents. Or in her case, his parents. The snow had melted and there wasn't much else to do but stay trapped inside.

Y/N knew from the moment they called her that she couldn't trust herself to stay quiet if they got into a conversation with her. A real, actual conversation outside of polite little hello's or how are you's when they crossed paths inside the house when they weren't at work or sleeping. Because she knew that if they did get to talking, it would lead to those burning, angry questions she has been holding in since she was a child. Because, on the inside, she knew that she couldn't trust herself to not hate them.

Earlier in the night, his parents left to take Jean and Erik home, which he knew would result in them not being home until midday tomorrow and result in them missing his birthday. (Not that he wasn't already used to such treatment). So, she could tell that for the duration of the entire night he was sluggish and upset, accepting that no matter how much time would pass, the relationship between him and his parents might always be this way. Fleeting and unsatisfying, cold and unfeeling. She spent the whole damn night just praying for him to tell her what he was thinking because every time she ran a hand over his shoulder and asked if he was alright, he simply nodded and looked ahead with a blank stare.

When she was contemplating how to tell him that his parents called, she knew this kind of thing might happen and it was the exact reason she didn't want to go, other than how traumatic the idea of returning to this place would be-it's been hard to avoid resting a hand over the spot of her abdomen where the scar lies since she's been here, as if the close proximity to where it had happened has been making it even more noticeable to her. But she figured this would happen. That they would get his hopes up when they asked him to come out here, still having that sway over his emotions no matter how hard he tries to deny it, and then let him fall back again. It was the pattern of his childhood and it's now the pattern of his adulthood relationship with his parents. The only slight change has been his mother, who, she realized the moment she got here, has at least some of the life returned to her eyes after all these years. Yet even Sharon, who once was a mother who he sat beside as she played piano and got ready in the morning, cares enough for him to stay and sit with him, to give him any kind of attention. A mother who acknowledged him, even if that's only a bare requirement he still can't help but treasure the mundane moments of sitting on the piano bench with his head leaned on her shoulder or laying in her bed in the morning after a nightmare, watching her get ready for work when she was pregnant with Georgie...his prized memories of his mother are the ones so many children overlook.

Because once his little brother ran off into that storm and never returned, he never again heard her playing her beloved piano or crawled into her bed after he woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares. And after that year, that summer, he could have used someone to console him with all of the terrors that haunted his sleep and yet she wasn't there. Neither of them were.

It kills her that he still yearns for them after all they did. That he wishes his mother would just call him into the parlor to sit and listen while she played melodies that could touch his soul in a way only music can when played at the hands of a talented, passionate player. It kills her.

But now, as she sleeps, he lets the mask he'd been fighting to keep in place all night fall to the ground, and shatter.

-

The first few days of the trip was hard enough without his parents crushing his heart. There had been the dinner, where his grandfather had effectively tried to humiliate her multiple times, and then the rest...

It wasn't like the man had given her a fair shot. Instead, he took one look at her, at the reputation her mother made for herself in this town years ago, and dismissed her as nothing less than a "whore's daughter" (something she'd heard many times growing up, as if the infidelity weren't already enough to deal with on its own). She has always found that people from older generations can be either the wisest and most kind-hearted people you'll ever know or the most bitter sons of bitches to walk the earth. Bill's grandpa leaned toward the latter.

So, they both had to bite their tongues the entire visit. Though every prodding question or jab from the lovely Erik, through any condescending question about why they live with their six best friends this long after graduating college-all of it, they had to bite their tongues for. It was an effort for her to not explode at his parents every time they spoke or pretended to care. Maybe his mother was truly trying but...Y/N was the one to see the aftermath of what they had done. She was left to help pick up the broken pieces of their neglected child and because of that, she isn't sure that she will ever find it in her heart to forgive them. Before Warner, neither of them had understood. How a parent could do something like that to their kid. But after him, he only became more frustrated and upset with them. Because as soon as he laid his eyes on his son, he knew that he would do anything, would die, for him if need be. It formed the question in his mind; if he would go as far as to sacrifice himself for his kid, then why had it been so easy for him to be forgotten after Georgie died?

That was why those few days were filled with such tension and hesitancy. It was all of the words left unsaid between them. Despite his mom's best efforts to mend what lay left between them, with attempts at conversation and hugs that he hadn't expected to feel so awkward, he realized that there was no fixing it...

What made his muscles tighten in fear and memory, what had sent him over the edge even after the afternoon lost in his thoughts was a storm. Rain always makes his mind free with terror. It began with rain...

As the moonlight shines into his childhood bedroom in shafts between the partially closed curtains, he realizes that there is no fixing him. That the part of him that existed before his brother's death, the untainted, purest part of his soul, had died in that storm with the little boy and rotted in the years after. The years of neglect and a loneliness so intense even Y/N couldn't settle it. What started as a kernel in the back of his mind as he laid awake beside her, something keeping him from the edge of sleep, has exploded into something different. Something so angry and so melancholy that the darkest, most broken parts of him want to recoil from it.

Thunder, loud and booming, cracks in his ears in time with a flash of bright lightning seeping in through the curtains.

Bill is hunched over on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands. Fingers card through his hair, tugging a little before letting go, as if that would rid him of the memories. Of what he cannot escape any longer. He does his best to not wake her up.

Having her wake up and see him in this state is just about the last thing he'd want. There's no doubt in his mind that her soothing, sweet voice would lull him back into his right state of mind and keep him in reality, but he's so far gone that he finds it hard to turn to her. Did she remember what he was beginning to get scraps and pieces of? Sure, she remembered a few moments of their summer and that day by the Quarry, but he has been remembering a lot and it seemed easier to not tell her...

"Oh g-god," He mutters under his breath, almost in disbelief, "H-Huh-How did I forget-'

He hadn't forgotten everything.

There had been bits left behind like a trail of breadcrumbs that had pieces snatched away little by little the further they ran from the town of horrors and the older they became. Only he was convinced those crumbs were the whole story. Sure, he knew the basis of what happened to them. But having to remember it with such detail is what sent him spiraling down down down. It had begun like an itch he couldn't scratch. The first day it was a small, almost insignificant one. Every so often the knob on the door that locked all of that trauma away would jiggle, as if someone-or something-was trying to throw it open. New Years Eve was slightly worse and seeing Neibolt didn't help. Hearing her theory about It holding their memories from them, hibernation and all, did not help. The thought planted like a parasite in his head, he started to see flashes of memories from years ago. Started to become trapped in them until they were finished; like what had happened to Y/N at the Quarry. And whenever he snapped out of it, he would search his room for the familiar figure he assumed was the cause until he remembered the rule.

Every twenty-seven years.

He clings to that right now, on the verge of a panic attack, as he desperately claws for the surface to feel like he's not in some alternative reality anymore. Nothing feels real.

That's when it happens. Like a sharp tug on the end of thread tied around his waist, he feels the pull. To go back. To go _back_  back and not hide from it this time, no matter what it might do to him.

Bill Denbrough, for once in his life, feels like he isn't brave enough to do this. Going back there always was a scenario of his worst nightmares and now he is going to do it. He's going to plunge into the belly of the beast.

The house is still and quiet as the weather rages outside the closed windows and curtains. And she doesn't wake as he walks down the stairs, careful to step on spots he remembered from when he lived here as being loud and creaking. He doesn't want her to know. It's enough of a burden on him now as these memories circle his mind, missing bits and pieces he's desperate to place almost taunting him. The idea of this thing targeting kids now that he's grown and knows what it did to him to survive, the idea of it getting to his kid now that he is beginning to remember is downright bone-chilling. It makes him want to hold him in his arms forever and never let go. It didn't take long for him to throw on a shirt and pants and slip from the room when he felt it at first, that pull.

He passes by empty rooms with walls void of pictures and the warmth of his home across the country. A house without love and shelter.

A loud crack of thunder makes him jump while his trembling hands twist the knob on the door to the garage. And under a tarp and thick layer of dust and rust after years of idle waiting for his return, Silver sits in the corner of the room he steps into.

It feels odd for him when he runs his hand along the handlebars of the old bike. To be back in Derry, his two hands testing out the feel of the bike's handles with a calloused grip. He bought Silver for twenty-four dollars when he was a kid. It was too big for him at the time and he rode it so dangerously and so fast that it raised concern, but it made him feel invincible. There are so many memories, good and bad, attached to this and he's crying, his eyes are clouded with tears as he feels them all wash over him. It's almost getting to be too much-this remembering and terror.

It's even stranger when he pedals out onto the streets and rides that path in his head, following that pull he'd felt up in his childhood bedroom earlier, as the rain hammers into his front. He has to squint to see in front of him, especially with the tears, and sometimes it's hard to differentiate the lightning from what he suspects might be oncoming cars. But every time he sees that light flash, even with the possibility that it might be a car that couldn't see him; Bill Denbrough shrouded in the darkness of the night, riding Silver on near speeding-limit speed in the pouring rain, he can't bring himself to care. Every time it happens, his legs screaming from the burn of how fast he pedals the bike, his sobs almost audible through the storm, he doesn't swerve out of the way of the cars he thinks are coming straight for him. He's too lost in the past and his mission to get back to where it all happened, the last missing piece, to realize that he wants to be hit. If all that life is is this endless, churning wave after wave of the agony of remembering what It did to him and his friends...he won't swerve to the side of the road. And the entire ride there, he never once does, he instead speeds into that light.

And he recalls the ride over there, all those years ago, the ride he took that he figured would be his last on the way to avenge his brother. It comes back in flashes, in tandem with the flashes of lightning and thunder all around him; booming and bright, the way the sun felt on his skin. The urgency that he felt, and feels now, that was rooted deep in his bones.

Bill almost crashes into the rusted fence posts bordering the yard of the house when he finally arrives, not taken out by a car or violent strike of lightning he also assumed might get him, but in one piece and standing at the edge of the universe alone.

Neibolt. Years have not been kind.

The house has only gotten worse with age. It's wood had been rotted when he was a child and now it's even worse, he's surprised it's not collapsing at this point. A bright flash of light illuminated it for him in brief, interrupted seconds. The door that's nearly falling off its hinges, the skeleton of a house he can almost clearly remember now that it's looming above him like the behemoth he recalls it once being to a young, brave child who sought to find and kill what took his brother from him.

Into the house he ventures and with every turn and twist through the cold and damp hallways and rooms, he feels the summer he so desperately tried to forget creeping up on him. The beaten down stairway shrieks with each step he takes down into the basement, that strange pull tugging and tugging on him to go.  _Come find me_ , it says, _see for yourself_. So he does.

When he reaches the tunnels, his muscles barking in pain with every step after he descended that withered, old rope down into the well. It should've broken under his weight. Now that he's grown so much since the last time he did this and the damn rope has been sitting there, in the corner of the basement, for fourteen years. It should've broken. It didn't though and he has to wipe the tears from his eyes to see through the darkness.

The "water" splashes at his ankles as he starts down corridor after corridor. At first, it's a slow, searching walk. Not too desperate or worried in the midst of the maze that is the sewers beneath Derry. But even with that tug that pulls him along down the path to where he is urged to go, he starts to hurry. Because if he doesn't, these walls just might close in on him and trap him inside forever.

Down and down he goes, turn after turn, shivering in the freezing cold air filling the sewer passages on his mission to reach the center of it all. The cistern.

The air is a couple degrees colder the moment he takes the step from the cramped, humid passageway to the room where everything happened. He staggers at the sight of it.

Nothing has changed.

And he cannot stop the cracking in his heart at the sight of it all and the way his chest deflates with a last, shuddering cry.

His kneecaps hit the ground hard, with a sound that makes him want to cringe and look away, and he sinks to his knees. He sinks to his knees and lets the wave carry him under.

_When Bill Denbrough walked into the sewers of Derry fourteen years ago, he only intended to do two things: kill that monster that took his little brother from the world and make sure his friends lived to see tomorrow._

He walked down there without the intention of making it out alive. So long as what killed Georgie was dead...he would be okay with whatever fate or God or whatever kind of higher power decided those kinds of things had planned for him.

He went in ready to die.

His water-soaked shoes squelched with every step he took through the cistern in search of It, masked as his kid brother, luring him away from the security of the pack of friends he'd brought with him. All he saw was the head of sandy brown hair before he slipped away from them and hurtled himself down the corridors of the sewers in pursuit of his target, the devil in the skin of an angel. It was hard not to get lost down there, but he and his friends had studied the maps of where all of the sewers of Derry lead well enough to keep his head screwed on straight enough. It was dark and cold. Goosebumps covered him on every exposed stretch of skin left uncovered by the sleeves of his shirt.

Greywater and sewer sludge, excrement and piss, coated his jeans up to the bottoms of his knees. Y/N. That was who he got his pants all dirty for when he practically fell to his knees trying to save her from tripping earlier. He hadn't realized he lunged forward to help, it was as if his body did it on its own accord, she wouldn't have even been hurt badly, but she missed a rough bump of her head against the wall because his arms found their way around her and held her up with her forehead only inches from the wall it would've hit.

He was pretty sure he had dried blood on his back from accidentally cutting himself on a jagged broken piece of metal he'd run by while trying to protect his friends, but it was too dark to confirm his suspicions. It was one of the most lonely places he'd ever been in, even when his friends had been flanking him.

But his little "brother" had disappeared as he went running into the wide, open room of that cistern. It only had one way in as far as he could tell. It had corned him. Prey _, he realized,_ it trapped me like an animal with its prey.

 _Then, a slithering, spine-chilling presence seemed to enter the room_ and-there _it was...there he was. Looking exactly as he had the last time he saw him. Only this time, his arm is gone._ We buried him, Bill, that isn't your brother, this isn't real, that isn't real, that isn't real.

_He opened his mouth to speak none the less, baffled by just how real he seemed. There was a voice in the back of his mind sounding off in a scream on repeat. The words "NOT REAL!" couldn't have sounded so false, even though it was the cold-blooded truth._

My brother died a year ago, this isn't him, this is his murderer. Don't die before you can kill it. Don't die before you can prove to Mom and Dad that you're here, that you aren't useless.

_Maybe this was why he'd been brought into this world. To avenge his brother. It always felt wrong that he was the one that lived. He always felt guilty for not being the dead one. It was all his fault in his head. So, if he had any purpose at all, he figured it had to be this. His purpose was to kill the evil that plagued his family so they could love him again. He prayed to whoever was listening that this would make them at least look at him, or ask him about what he and his friends did while he was gone all day, maybe even spend some time with him before they retired to bed after a long day of work. Sometimes it felt like they were trapped on other sides of a fogged up window, and he was banging his fists bloody, screaming at them, sobbing with his face pressed against the surface of it, while they stood there with a far off look in their eyes like he was nothing but a slight breeze coming in from the screen door on a hot summer day. Not acknowledged. Not even noticed._

_"Y-Y-Yuh-Your arm..." was all he could manage to choke out, hadn't seen the body, "G-G-"_

_A hard exhale that sent his shoulders deflating._

_"I waited for you, Billy," The sound of the little boy's voice echoed in the room._

_For a moment, only one moment, he decided he could let himself believe it's real and that he's truly in front of him. If only to give himself the time to say a real goodbye instead of what he'd actually said to him the last time he saw him. It occurred to him right then and there that he hadn't told Georgie he loved him that day. Why hadn't he said it?_

Why didn't I say it, why didn't I say it, why didn't I-

_He straightened himself a little. Gathering courage, was what he was doing because once It's done playing with its food..._

_"_ I s _-spent every minute you were gone looking for you."_

_The sound of far off footsteps, hard and rumbling and splashing, reached him. His friends._

_But the world felt like it had gone still for a moment. As if they weren't about to try to put an end to the suffering in Derry. As if it was just Bill and Georgie, talking in his bedroom right where they left off that morning._

_Bill felt the presence of the ancient spirit surrounding him. It filled the room up. Almost drowned the sound of his approaching friends._

_"I miss you," The thing had said, it's spot on imitation of that child's voice cracking desperately, "I miss Mom and Dad!"_

_And he could feel himself begin to lose compose, the last thread of_ self control _he had on the muscles that ached to surge forward and feel those little arms around his shoulders one last time. That was when he knew he had to end this, once and for all, and tugged back on the leash holding himself in place. A warning. Not_ real _, not real, not real, not real._

_"I love you, Billy."_

_The Losers halted a few feet behind him the second they saw what form it had taken to try to break their leader. Y/N's heart sank immediately and, for once, Richie Tozier went silent. Out of them all, he probably understood Bill the best and knew what this meant. What seeing the ghost of his dead brother did to him. Beverly gripped her weapon tighter until her knuckles went white and swore in her head that as soon as he gave them the signal. As soon as he's had his moment with Georgie, real or not, they'd obliterate It together._

_There was someone staring into the back of his head, a single step sounding on the floor and then_ nothing, _as if someone else grabbed the person's wrist and stopped them._

 _Bill's jaw clenched suddenly and he muttered a barely audible, gasping, "I love_ you s _-so much," before he slipped the broken fence post from where he'd been hiding it behind his leg and swung it like a baseball bat with all of the force he could muster into the side of_ It's _head._

_The crunching sound it made, paired with having to see it in the form of his little brother made him instantly flinch upon the impact._

_Then, there was the fighting. The Losers tugging him back as it began to transform into Pennywise to kill them all-eat them-and screeching at each other to do something. His thoughts moved too fast. Half of him was shouting to move forward and kill while the other half told him to think, when and how to strike, to defend them._

_"Kill it!" Stan's voice was right behind his left shoulder when it charged toward them._

_It was the moment he'd been preparing for. Yearning for. But it wasn't what he expected. It didn't feel good to get revenge, no matter how right of a thing it was to do. He felt like there was a stone in his gut as they all valiantly fought to kill it._

_But something went wrong._

_In the midst of it all, someone got too close and he swore he was keeping an eye on all of them,_ especially  _her but then-feeling Y/N's blood spray out onto him was a feeling he knew deep inside of him he'd never forget. He had flinched. The_ crimson _was a stark difference to his pale skin and it was hot where it touched him, slick and hot and sticky on where it sprayed all over him. The white of his shirt speckled with red, his hands, his neck, his face-he brought his hands to his face a fraction of a second after it hit him and wiped it off his eyelids. He didn't know then, but it would take years to stop feeling her blood on his skin._

_Ben was the one with the swiftest reaction and he managed to get to her, a few long strides of running, to keep her from cracking her head open on the cement. He could barely think straight, but he vividly remembers making a quick note in his mind to get down on his knees and kiss the ground that Ben Hanscom walked on for that. It didn't matter that any one of them would've done it for her, didn't matter that any decent human being would've helped her; he wanted to worship him for it._

_His hair had been soaked with that blood. So wet that he could've shaken it out like a dog and it would've splattered on his other friends as it had him. Later that night the blood was bright against the porcelain as it pooled around his feet on the bathtub's floor. Water sprayed him from the shower head, so hot it should have burned his skin, but it wasn't hot enough to burn away the phantom feeling of blood slick on his skin._

_When she was cut open, he swore he felt a part of him concave on itself. Almost felt her flicker there for a moment between standing in shock and losing control over her legs, knees buckling, body careening for the floor. He thought he felt her die for a second._

_It was in that moment that something snapped in him._

_He didn't know why. Only that it hurt her, that it hurt her and all he wanted to do was get his hands around that thing's neck and squeeze. Flashes of images went off in his head, of her, then his hands pressing down against_ It's _throat, the laugh she'd made when they were sitting together inside the Aladdin Theater and he whispered a joke about the movie in her ear, the life leaving its eyes. Georgie, Y/N. Avenge, protect._

_His mother always told him girls matured quicker than boys. They grow before they do both mentally and physically. They have crushes sooner. They're taller and faster when they're young. Boys take a bit longer to catch up. Even now he wonders if she knew. If she felt what he did, what he didn't even realize he felt until much later, and if she too felt how distraught he became in the moment it took for her to be slashed open by Pennywise._

_The words were a mutter, soft and stuttering, and he mouthed them for his own sake, "He t-_ thuh _-_ hrusts _-s his fists against the_ p-p _-posts and still insists he s-sees the ghosts-" the mantra helps steady him, "He thrusts his f-fists against the posts and s-_ stuh _-still insists he sees the ghosts," A deep breath, slowly, "He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts."_

 _Pennywise began to mock him, but he_ tuned _it out._

_It felt so cold. But the blood was warm. Her blood, coating the spots where it splattered on him like a second skin, was warm._

_Bill's eyes bounced back and forth from where she twitched in his friend's arms and where It stood, smiling at him with a hungry drool dribbling down its paper white chin._

_Her anguished cry bounced off the walls and back to him, her hands clutching Ben like a lifeline. His face hardened._

_"I'm going to f-f-_ fuh _-fucking kill you."_

_And then Bill Denbrough unleashed holy hell._

It's truly difficult to do anything other than stare at that spot on the ground where he remembered seeing Georgie-what appeared to be Georgie-stand once he is released from the grasps of his memory.

It was the last time, his last goodbye. And then there was Y/N...

There's a spot, a few feet away from where he last remembered seeing Georgie, where the concrete goes a little dark. If you didn't know where to look, you wouldn't see it. But as his eyes clear and he focuses through the mist that clouds his mind, it's clear to him where the large puddle of her blood had rested. He clenches his hands into fists at the thought. Crimson bright against grey, against the pale of his skin, streaked through his hair to color it a deeper, darker kind of red. It took him an hour that night to wash the blood, crusted to the stands of hair, out of his head.

The moment Pennywise disappeared, he dropped the jagged fence post he'd been using as a weapon and rushed past all of the Losers he'd been fighting alongside to get to her. Ben had to get up to fight, they had to keep her laying down on the floor to get rid of It before they came back to help her.

His footsteps were hard and he ended up splashing himself and the other two people closest to him, hot on his heels were Richie and Bev. Beverly cared for her in a way he didn't, in a way only female friends could care about each other, with a kind of unwavering resilience and benevolence as the calm sea, a kind unity and companionship he couldn't give her. He was a churning, crashing wave after wave storm that only began to calm once It had disappeared. Suddenly, there was no anger in him. There was only the sweet kind of worry that prompted him to fall to his knees beside her. Richie was close behind him, if not for his close relationship to the girl, then for Bill. As much as he joked and jabbed at his friends, he didn't miss what lingered in their leader's glances at her, nor did he miss the certain shining brand of smile that always bloomed on her face when they saw Silver rolling up to them everyday. If there is one thing Richie was not; it would be an idiot. Only fools would mistake the Trashmouth for anything less than what he was; the smartest of them all.

Bill's eyes went wide with fear at her slumped form and he scrambled to her. His hands brushed the hair that had stuck to her sweat-slick face away.

"She's still b-b-breathing..." The murmur was gentle.

So, he hefted her into his arms and he and Mike took turns carrying her on their way out. They had to run, even with her in the arms of one of them, in order to get her out in time. It was difficult, but he didn't feel a thing. He figured he must've been trembling from all of the exertion, but adrenaline ran through him like a wildfire. He realized what gave mothers the strength to lift cars and save their babies because despite the fact that he could barely give any of them a piggyback ride on a good day, he pushed himself to his true physical limits to run with her in his arms.

The two of them ended up separating from the Losers when Stan asked an old lady if she could drive them to a hospital. One look in Y/N's direction had her flinging open the backseat door.

Bill stroked her hair and watched his tears land on her cheek the whole drive there, his body trembling was something he hadn't recognized until it was time to stand back up again. Thankfully, she wasn't unconscious. She was barely hanging onto that thread of life, between asleep and awake, but her eyes were slightly open. Chest rose and fell with breath after struggling breath. For the entire duration of the ride he kept his free hand on her wrist to feel for her pulse.

 _She was_  this close _to having her insides spilling out...that cut was almost too deep. It almost took her from him._

His tears never seemed to cease. From everything. Georgie, It, his parents, who he knew would still ignore him, and her. He cried for all of it.

-

It's been a good night of sleep for Y/N so far.

It was only the storm that made her come to, since these days it's been getting easier and easier to sleep, especially when every moment of rest you get when looking after a newborn that has you up every hour is considered a precious gift. She woke up only a little at first, the sound of thunder yanking her up from the depths of a deep sleep until she heard the sound of the front door slamming shut and lurched up from the mattress, her body hitting the floor with a loud thump.

Y/N's face scrunches in confusion.

The house is empty save for her and Bill, so what was that noise? She immediately pushes onto her knees, then scrambles to her feet to wake him-wondering briefly in the back of her mind how the hell he didn't wake up when she fell off the bed-to find him gone.

Her stomach knots with a sudden rush of fear and undeniable, unavoidable dread. Her thoughts are frantic as she quietly rushes over to the closet, rifling through old clothes and things she remembers seeing throughout the room as a teenager to find something, anything, to defend herself with. The first thought always is if It is finally coming back. To finish the job and wipe her from the face of this earth.

She grips the handle of the baseball bat that was discarded on the top shelf of the closet with white knuckles, pushing herself back into the corner of the room with her eyes glued to the open doorway.

 _If It is coming to kill me and Bill is gone_ -it hits her. If It is here and Bill is gone, then he might not be...

It should be obvious to her. She shouldn't jump to such extremes, especially when she knows it hasn't been twenty-seven years, but being back in Derry like this is screwing with her head. It's hard to be rational with this town looming around her.  _Maybe we were wrong, what if It will come back whenever it damn well pleases? What if it already killed Bill_ -The sound of the steps, more specifically of someone walking up the steps, interrupts her train of thought.

Y/N almost whimpers at that.

Of course, the night that his family is gone, It would choose to creep back into the house and pick them both off. To leave Warner without them.  _Warner_. Her heart stops.

Would she be able to go on? If Bill died, would she be able to do it, live?

And the answer is there, in the way her hands tighten their hold on the bat and raise it in readiness. It's what she agreed to do in having this child with him. If he died-she cringes at that thought, raising the bat once more-she wouldn't do to their son what his parents did to him in the wake of their loss. She owed that to him, and to the sleeping baby boy three thousand miles away.

The steps creep closer and closer. The end of the hallway, the midpoint to the door. Five feet away, four, three, two-she forces herself upright and prepares to fight. Fight for her life and go down swinging.

Her sound of relief, and the bat being tossed to the ground, when Bill stops in the doorframe, practically fills the room.

"What are you doing?" She asks, crossing the room in a few quick strides to embrace him.

But she stops short upon seeing the tears in his eyes. Hair wet and clothes practically soaked against his skin. Her hands are flat against his chest that rises and falls rapidly with heaving breaths. If she weren't incredibly worried and preoccupied with his wellbeing, she would've told him he looked like he just ran a marathon.

Tears fill the brims of his eyes once more and it's hard for him to hold it in while looking at her. Cause all he can see is what she looked like then, being mutilated by that monster, falling to the cistern floor. All he can see is them in the back of that car, her blood splattered all over him and seeping onto the seats while he cried over her nearly unconscious body.

He collapses into her.

Falling onto his knees again and wrapping his arms around her body, his face is buried in her thigh.

Being trapped back in that memory was a certain amount of horror he hadn't been ready for and the idea of losing her-it broke him.

For the hour following that memory finally coming back to him in full force, he sat with his legs curled into his chest on the cistern floor, sobs choking out of him. It took him a while to come back to reality. It was much easier to lay there, broken, unmoving, in the darkness of the sewers, but it was an effort to find a reason to pick himself back up. To get up, bike home, and decide to move out of the way of the few cars that passed by. Because when he'd been trapped in there, he wished he could've told it. He wished he could have screamed at It.

_I wish you killed me instead!_

His body slumps against her and he's sitting on his heels now.

There it is. The unfiltered, whole truth.

If he could've been the one to go in place of Georgie. His parents never paid him any heed anyway and if his brother were the one to live, he figures they wouldn't have broken as much. Wouldn't have forgotten how to function or be what he so needed them to be in such fragile times of his life.

"What's wrong?" Her voice is gentle and practically feels like an embrace all on its own, even without her hands reaching down to grasp at his shoulders.

Y/N tries to get her arms under his to heft him up to stand, but he doesn't move and she can't lift him.

He can't even find it in him to say something. It's too complicated, it's too much and he's too much for her, for anyone. He'd be better off alone, that way he'd never have to drag her or anyone else he cared about into this-

" _Bill_ ," The sound of her tone goes hard, "You need to tell me what happened."

The sound of that fence post bludgeoning his "brother" in the head, her body hitting the floor, the blood. It's the feeling of the rainwater, slick on his skin, that feels like her blood had when it was coating his skin. His heart begins to hammer in his chest. Suddenly it feels like too small of a room and the water, it's her blood. Despite that, logically, it's cold from the frigid January temperature, it feels hot and sticky on his skin and he can't ignore it.

Bill lets out a soft whine of panic and pulls his hands away from her to scrub at his skin.

"G-G-Get it off of me!"

She watches, terrified, as her husband begins to rub at his skin until it goes bright red, looking and presumably feeling raw to the touch as he desperately attempts to wash something off of it, whatever it is, she doesn't know.

Her blood is coating every inch of his skin, soaking his clothes and his face and his eyelids, it's all over him and she's bleeding out beside him.

"Bill!" She shrieks, not caring how loud she may be as she falls down to his level, her hands moving to him.

What she hadn't expected, was to be shoved back.

It leaves her stunned for a moment, her back flat against the bad behind her; frozen in abject horror at the man in front of her. He hasn't been this bad since that weekend they spent together here, in this very room. That, at least, is clear in her mind. He was a sobbing, trembling mess and was clinging to her for dear life. It took her a half hour to calm him down. But she knew that was a nightmare, it was easy to tell, right now she has no idea what happened and he isn't in a state to tell her.

Y/N pushes forward to him and dodges his attempts to shove her away, maybe mistaking her for someone, something else. She's crying.

"Bill!"

Hands seizing his shoulders, shaking with all of her considerable strength to pull him out of it.  _Maybe it's a memory or some kind of sleepwalking? What the hell_ ** _happened_** _?_

He's practically scrambling onto his side to get away with his eyes screwed shut and she starts to wonder if she can bring him down from his. Or if she's useless and he'll be stuck in this hell forever, never opening his eyes so she can never help or never coax him back to the light.

"You need to look at me!" She exclaims, her throat parched, and takes his face in her hands.

There's utter refusal in his face and his shut eyes loosen, only a small bit. But it's enough for her to be convinced that he's still in there. That he isn't too far gone at this point or that they aren't past the point of no return.

"Look at me!"

"G-G-G-Get it off," He cries.

Still not opening his eyes. Still buried beneath layer after layer of memory without being able to see her in his reality. The true reality where he has her, has a family that he loves and needs.

The skin along his face is freezing to the touch and slick with rain while she holds it up to be face to face with her's. She holds him there and does not yield.

Y/N commands, no room for objection, "You have to look at me."

His breathing is at least slowing slightly and so she keeps on, not daring to retreat or slump with defeat. She's done this before, does this more than she wishes she'd ever have to, as he's done for her, and so she will do it once more.

"It's Y/N, it's me," A hopeful, pleading sound escapes his throat at that, "It's me...I-"

Everything pauses and she hears the words in her head, the day they spent together lying in bed at home after she calmed him down from the brink of panicking fresh in her mind.

He's only slightly thrashing in her arms as if he's accepting whatever fate he's envisioning is being given to him in his head, tears and snot and rainwater on his face as he cries into her hands.

She says, "Stay with me, Bill. Its hard to, but stay."

And in the light of the lightning and crashing sound of thunder cracking in the world outside of the safety of this bedroom, Bill opens his eyes.

The darkness in the room gutters, only for a moment, when he can make out the person above him. His wife, teary-eyed and haloed like an angel in the lamplight, above him. It still feels like something is coating his skin in a layer of thick, hot, inescapable blood, but for the briefest of moments he opens his eyes and sees her, and cannot help but sag in the safety of her touch.

Y/N shakes his head slightly in her hands and forces him to keep looking at her. Her chest is moving with every rapid breath she takes against his.

"What happened?"

It only makes his sobs start to pick up again and the sound, the sight, everything about seeing him in such a state of misery makes it feel like she's being torn apart. He keeps shaking his head through every sniffle and cry and she doesn't know what to do.

His nightmares or breakdowns almost never get this bad. Most of the time, he's able to bring himself down or is with their friends or her, the only people who get what he's dealing with, but tonight he fucked up. He didn't want her to see him like this, not after all this time and all these years of progressively starting to get better. Tonight he digressed, massively, and could physically feel himself falling back between the cracks separating the reality of his adulthood and the past that was his horrifying childhood. The feeling of her on him is like a cold breeze jolting through the layer of hot blood slick against his skin.

"Bill," She says, unable to keep the breaking of her voice away despite how calm and supporting she knows she must be for him when he's this way, "You have to tell me how I can help. What's wrong?"

His eyes are fighting to stay open and he wants nothing more than to slip back to that dark place. The darkness and hopelessness is easier. It's easier to give in and give up and let himself fall, but whenever he longs to do so he feels that cool breeze on him, like a cat brushing up against his legs and he finds that he can't shut them. Finds the strength to speak.

"S-S-Suh-So hot, it's all o-over me," He meets her stare with a frantic one, the sorrow in them nearly enough to break her completely, "C-C-C-Cant wash i-it off."

Her eyebrows furrow at the words, searching for any kind of significance in them. Its rain, it's just rain and it should be freezing him to death because it's so cold out that it's a few degrees away from snowing-

That's when it clicks. And she squeezes his hand once, before rushing out the bedroom door and down the hallway so fast that her socked feet are a few missteps away from sending her careening for the floor. _I have to get it off him, he's freaking out_. It doesn't take long to reach the hall closet at the far end of the small space across from his bedroom where she remembers the towels being kept.

For years after that fated night in the sewers, he kept feeling her blood on him. From when Pennywise had slashed into her and spattered his body, since he'd been standing right next to her, in blood. She curses under her breath at the barren closet, a shell of shelves and hangers left empty since nobody in the damned house could be bothered, and sends herself tumbling down the steps, taking stair after stair in haste that could easily end in her tripping, but she doesn't care.

There were times when he could barely stand rain, times when he would freeze up and freak out when he ended up stranded, unable to seek over in the middle of a rainstorm because of the blood and the significance of the rainstorm that he let his little brother run off into, never to return. The last time it happened was years ago, in college, but she still is kicking herself for not seeing it sooner than when he said something. Being back and Derry with the memories and the storm...

There ends up being a towel in the laundry room, folded on top of the dryer where it was left after she washed it earlier in the night after her shower.

Bill is still crying on the floor where she last left him by the time she storms back into the old bedroom, her shaking hands holding the towel with white knuckles. Except now he's begun to scrub at his skin again, as if scratching away at the top layer until he's left sensitive and bleeding would be enough to wash away the scorn of those bitter memories.

She falls back to her knees.

He's rasping, "I-I-It's everyw-where.  _Please_ ," His sobbing is a vice around her heart.

The moonlight and lightning helps her in drying the water off his skin so she can at least see what she's doing.

Starting with his face, since that's where he'd been vigorously scrubbing with the heels of his hands as if bugs were crawling all over it, she wipes the towel down his cheeks, across his forehead, gently going over his eyes until it's no longer dripping with water and covering his skin akin to the way that seemingly endless splatter of blood had.

The air in the room goes colder and colder the more she dries him off and he even begins to shiver once she peels the soaked shirt over his head, throwing it across the room carelessly. All that matters to her at the moment is Bill. Even if Bev or Stan or Mike came bursting unto this room screaming that It was back or that they needed to kill it, she would sit here on the hard, cold hardwood floor of his childhood room and towel him down until he's no longer shaking with fear. His chest glistens from the sopping heavy fabric that had been laying against it for at least two hours now and his skin is a bright, flushed red from how utterly frozen he'd been on the floor of the cistern. But still, she keeps her lips shut with the except of soft, soothing reminders for him to breath, and dries away what he'd been so convinced was her blood.

The number of times she had to do this when they were seventeen, eighteen, nineteen? Countless. There were days she would be sleeping over, days his parents were staying at his grandparents, only to find him clawing at sweat coating his skin post-nightmare and ending up with a towel from the hall closet in hand to make it go away. He's saved her a numerous amount of times, but she saved him right back. With these, benevolent displays of her love. Spending hours with him in idle calm following a spark of panic set off by nightmares or storms. Then there are the more fierce, passionate displays. Moments in that summer when she'd been saving his ass day after day from It, moments later on in life whenever anyone tried to hurt him...it felt like a duty to protect him. She once took a glass of whiskey Ben was drinking and shattered it on the face of a man who he got into a fight with after he snapped a pool stick over Bill's head, sending him unconscious and falling to the ground. Richie joined in on kicking the shit out of him, only a few kicks to the gut though since that glass to the face damn near killed him already. But when Bill came to, head spinning and half drunk in the backseat of a cab, his head was cradled in her lap and she was dabbing the blood from his scalp with a wet washcloth they snagged off the bar before someone could call the cops on them.

It seems that they always find each other. No matter what happens or who gets hurt, how far they drift or wander, it always ends with this. And when he looks through nearly closed, still tear-filled eyes, to see her face staring at him with concern and love, he can't find it in himself to give up. Not when his angel, the one who's taken his hand and picked him up whenever he's fallen, is on the other side of that darkness.

It's quiet in the house again and the storm has calmed down in the time it took for her to-How long has it been? Bill's nose scrunches at one particularly rough swipe of the towel against a spot he scratched at to the point of broken skin and as he contemplates how long they've been sitting here. Fifteen minutes, an hour, three hours? He wouldn't know. He doesn't even know what time he left the house let alone how long he spent in the cistern or riding his bike back, which he left on it's side in the middle of the yard the second he reached the home he suspected, through his tears and the rain, was his parents' house.

Her knees are bumping against his with every slight shift he makes into the fluffy, but now damp cloth that has more than done it's job at getting the water from his skin. At this point, it's a comfort if anything. Her way of waiting for him to speak up, whenever he feels ready to or if he even wants to. Sometimes the things they deal with on a daily basis are so dark that even talking to  _each other_ about it feels unsafe

He doesn't remember her shutting the curtains or shoving a random tape into the old boombox to keep out the patter of rain on the windows, anything to help him forget that there's a storm going on outside. It also slipped his mind when she tossed his wet clothes across the room and wrapped a dry, warm flannel of his over his shoulders.

"I'm s-s-so sorry."

The first words he's spoken in the last hour of drying the rainwater off his body and soft-spoken words she's breathed into the space between them and they make her face fall.

"You never have to be sorry."

A subtle shake of his head, a barely there shift that sends a damp strand of hair onto his forehead from where it had been slicked back by her hands running through it.

"B-But I am," The words are barely a push of air, "I c-can't just visit my hometown or go out in a rain s-storm without freaking out and y-yuh-you don't deserve being forced to deal with me."

The towel slips from her hands and she shaking her head, her bottom lip wobbling as she reaches for him and he recoils. Dismisses the attempted touch.

"I went into Neibolt," Bill murmurs, looking at her with the eyes of a frightened animal, not her brave leader.

But she doesn't interrupt or reach for him again this time and instead simply blinks at him in shock, in curiosity. And all she can think on the inside is that it's all her fault, that she should have know, should have known, should have known.

"A-A-And maybe I was being stupid, but I kept following those memories that came back to me and they lead me down to the c-cistern," A tear that had been welling up in the corner of his eye silently slips down the side of his nose, "Where you were attacked..." There's a pause in everything around them, the air, the music, his breathing, until his shoulders fall with a heart-wrenching sob and he murmurs, "I almost got you killed, Y/N..."

 _That_  is what breaks her. What crushes her heart right where it beats in her chest.

Shaking, shuddering breaths fall from between her lips at the pain in his face and his softer, more slow and torturous tears, at the words that left him a fraction of a second ago. _I almost got you killed_. Said so guiltily, sorrowfully.

Her eyes are wide as she shakes her head more frantically and doesn't realize how hard she's now beginning to cry herself. It takes every ounce of control in her body to not reach for him or take his face in her hands just to feel the warmth of his skin under her palms again.

She manages, "You can't blame yourself for what It did to me, I went there because I-"

"You w-went there because I went to your door one day and asked you to. I could have g-g-g-gone alone and you wouldn't have been hurt and no one would have to deal with the consequences of what  _I_ dragged them into. Especially considering h-how drastic yours were," His voice falls to a whisper of sound at the end.

And she can see it. The way his chest is starting to rise and fall faster than it had before he said that and the catch of a breath in the back of his throat.

"Bill, you didn't-"

"I almost killed you and all of our f-friends because I was too luh-lost in my own grief and recklessness to think about what might happen to myself, let alone anyone else," He says, "My p-p-parents blame me and you s-should to."

 _Damn it all to hell_ , she surges forward and grips his face in her hands again. Holds him there in her grasp for a few seconds to keep his eyes locked to her's and for good measure, tells him to keep them on her. Tells him to look at her. Really look at her.

They've been through too much. That is clear, but they've been through all of it side by side and she won't sit here and let him tear himself apart over something that wasn't his fault. Something that she never even thought to blame him for. Because blame lies not on him or any of them, but on the sick, murderous monster that caused all of this. It had twisted him so terribly that he thought it was his fault. How could he ever think it was his fault?

Y/N is gentle, but firm when she leans forward to him, nose to nose, face to face, and opens her mouth to speak.

"Don't you  _ever_  say that again. Don't you  _dare_."

He let's out a shaking exhale and tries to speak but she presses her fingertips hard into the bone of his jaw. Unrelenting. Unwilling to let him try to convince her to place blame on the most innocent of people in the situation.

"You aren't the villain. Your little brother was murdered by that disgusting thing, It is the reason your parents neglected you, It nearly killed me-not you," She says with a spark, a fire he loves so dearly, "Don't you understand?"

Bill is unable. Unable to breathe or think or hear anything outside of the voice of the woman he loves with every morsel of his being. All he can do is look into those eyes of uncompromising love and will and come home. His wife, his angel, his home. Sun and stars.

"You are the hero of this story. You sent away the monster and carried me to safety, despite your own issues or injuries or problems, you casted the evil out of our lives and saved us," The heat of her breath along his neck tickles with a last, desperate sigh, "You saved me," Her tears drop onto where his hands are resting on her lap and she whispers, "You saved me, so stay."

Stay here, stay with her, stay in reality, where life is so much more than pain and grief and sorrow and blood. What good could the past do when she's holding him like this, loving him. It had been so easy to want it all gone, the memories and the reality, all of it. To want to be gone when he realized It had never left him, not really. That even running away to the other side of the country wouldn't remove what had been done to him.

Bill nods and she feels the movement between her fingertips. Feels the tip of his nose brush her's with the soft nod.

"S-Stay," He whispers, parroting her request back to her with his lips so close they're almost bumping her's as he begins to smile through the sorrow of the night, "I can do that."

Their lips are slick with salty tears, a saltiness he can taste on the tip of his tongue when he leans into her, pressing his mouth onto her's with a subdued kind of softness he only has when he wants her to know.

One hand is threaded into her hair while the other is balling her shirt into a fist; needing her to be as close as physically possible even while his kisses are gentle and loving, he's pressed so tightly against her there's no possible space left between them. It's at the last, impassioned little press of his closed mouth against her's that she can feel what he wants her to know behind that kiss, behind the hand weaved in her hair and gripping her shirt, behind the heart beating so wildly against his chest that's pressed flush against hers so she can feel every valiant beat.

_I will always stay. You are my one in a million and you're my match, my lover and friend, in every sense of the word. What we have is rare and precious and I intend to stay. For as long as you want me to, as long as you do the same._

It's all present in the vulnerable and desperate collision of his lips to her's. And she gets every word. Every syllable as he pulls her to him, wraps his arms around her and keeps her tucked against him with a strength she never sees coming.

Y/N keeps her hands cupping his face through every bit of it and shuts her eyes in appreciation of the feeling of his hands gliding up and down her clothed back. Her legs settle on either side of his hips and she gasps a little at the contact. Even with the other day in the car, it wasn't like this and after months of not being touched as much as he usually touched her when she hadn't recently given birth to a child, she's so sensitive it's almost laughable how little it takes for her now.

But at her hands moving his shirt off his shoulders, he shakes his head and pulls back.

At her confused glance, he asks, hands rubbing her arms comfortingly, "Are you, you know, a-alright?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you?"

He rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, "I'm feeling a lot b-better, thanks to you."

Then after a short pause after he pulled back, "You w-were taking off my shirt and I wanted to ask if-if you were okay. We haven't since...I can wait as long as you n-n-need to to be ready," His words run along her skin, sending shivers through her because of the hot breath that hits her exposed skin with every word, "If that means a year from now, it means a year. I'll live."

"Your right arm would get pretty jacked," She jabs, an amused smile lighting her features.

Bill lets soft laugh escape him and says, "P-P-Probably."

But then the joking ceases and there's only the two of them, alone in the near silent room, with the exception some nine-year-old mixtape playing in the background, while they're caught in a stare-down. He doesn't yield, not with this. If she isn't ready, he won't touch on the topic, won't touch her. He wasn't lying, he would give her as much time as she needs. And at first, a week or two after having their son, she couldn't imagine wanting sex at all. Her body was overflowing with hormones and it didn't feel like her body yet. It still felt like Warner's home.

Yet now, with Bill in her arms and the emotions that are raging through her so forcefully she can barely breathe, all she wants is him. To hold him, to love him, to show him that.

"With you," Her voice is barely more than a whisper, she shakes her head, as if to clear her mind, "I'll always want you, Bill. Always."

But she knows he won't move an inch until he hears it. So she kisses him deeply, mouth open against his and rolls her hips down against his in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth (she's not the only sensitive one, it seems).

Still reeling from that bit of tingling contact, she murmurs into his mouth, "Yes."

Bill wraps his arms back around her body, opening his mouth to her's finally, and begins to kiss her back with the passion she's been desperately missing for the past months. Though their relationship could survive on their unbelievable deep emotional connection alone and has proven to do so, physical intimacy, for them, has always been as easy as breathing.

Pleasure is rippling through her at the prodding nudge of his hips grounding up against her, the cadence of it slow and a little too gentle for either of their taste, but it's enough to make her bite down on his lip hard.

Her giggle breaks through the kiss though and she's nearly breathless when she mutters into his open mouth, "You're already so hard..."

As if in an answering taunt, he bucks his hips up into her and holds them there for a second, hand flat on the plane of her back as they kiss, so she can feel exactly what she does to him. And if she weren't already out of air, that sucked all the oxygen out of the room and left her gasping. The slight rutting continues, none of it as intense as that one, taunting release of the leash he's keeping on himself, but still enough. Much more than enough and it keeps her breathless through it all.

It takes a while of this before they even consider moving on.

This night isn't something they want to rush since, after all, they don't get much time alone at home and not nearly as much privacy as a house to themselves, so they aren't going to make this go by in a quick blink or get too hasty. No, they never want this moment to pass. Never want to live outside of this bedroom again.

But right now, she's yearning for more and the feeling of him, hard against her through his nearly dry jeans as they practically fuck through their clothes, is starting to not be enough. Not when that part of her, that had been idle for a long, long time, is longing for a much more final kind of closeness.

"Bed," She says in between kiss after kiss, "The bed-"

He hefts her up from the ground, the world suddenly a bit taller for the few seconds he stands with her in his arms at his full height, before he sets her down on the mattress and already disheveled sheets. The bedsheets are worn and soft where they meet her shoulders, which aren't covered by her tank, and she hums in appreciation; rubbing her head back against them while she watches him crawl over top of her, pants gone and discarded where the shirt she'd peeled off him earlier had gone.

Bill takes a second to look at her, really look, as she'd asked him to before tonight, and his heart swells with love for her. The hair spread on the bed she's laid back on and the look of something hungry and needy that lingers in her eyes when they land upon him.

"You're so beautiful," He murmurs, an emotion she can't decipher flickering across his face, only once, "You can't be real."

Then he closes the distance between them.

Y/N never has been able to handle how incredibly skilled he's gotten to be over the years. When you've been with the same person, for years and years and years, it's easy to know exactly where to touch or kiss to make them go absolutely wild and Bill, god help her, knows exactly what to do with her to make that happen.

There's no way to know where once pleasure ends and the other begins. Not with him pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to her chest and at the same time continuing that slow, torturous grind of his hips down on her, which makes the delight of simple pleasures like the feeling of his hands sliding under the hem of her top increase tenfold.

She tips her head back into the mattress, mouth dropping open slightly at his palms finding home over her breasts, not a shred of mercy in those perfect caresses. It's hardly a second before that tank is pulled over her head.

"Mmm," Bill hums against her chest and presses a kiss to the peak of her nipple, hands still kneading her at the same time, "I've m-muh-missed these."

This makes her laugh, the sound something that makes his stomach go light and feathery with adoration, and chance a glance at him.

A kiss on her breastbone, "So," A gentle lick of his tongue along her skin just a little bit lower, "much."

"And you say I'm the one who can't be real, look at you, you're unbelievable," She manages through the little sharp intakes of breath with every one of ministrations.

It's the truth. To her, Bill is simply breathtaking and when he's doing this to her, making her head spin with need to the point where she's practically aching for him, it is quite unbelievable. How wonderful and beautiful she finds him to be.

But she couldn't speak even if she wanted to when he rests his hand, probably to get a different kind of sound out of her, over the fabric of her underwear.

The heel of his hand presses insistently on that bundle of nerves through the midnight blue scraps of silk and lace. He doesn't bother asking if she was trying to kill him by wearing something so sexy and instead opts for using that lovely fabric against her, rubbing in tight, precise circles into her. It's a instantaneous, perfect kind of pleasure that strikes her where she's weakest and she can practically feel his lips slightly curling up where they're pressing against her navel; parting only to lick a stripe up the stretch of skin.

It feels a little bit odd to be so exposed for him right now. It's not like he hasn't seen her or hasn't run his hands and mouth over every square inch of her before, but she looks a bit different since having the baby and it'd be a lie to say the insecurity hasn't been tugging at the back of her mind lately. Especially when she's breastfeeding or topless and can feel her eyes on him. It's clear to tell that his eyes are on her for any reason but judgement, but it still makes her want to disappear sometimes. She's still getting a feel for her body again and now that it looks different from how it has for the past two or so years, it's to not want to cross her arms over her abdomen. Already the scar is enough to give her the urge and with this on top of it, it's incredibly strong.

Except, he's there, still kissing her all the way down her abdomen. Over every new mark or telltale sign of what her body has been through in carrying their son for the a whole nine months, he appreciates every single one. How couldn't he? When they're a sign of what they made together, of what became of their love?

There's only a slight pause when he reaches the scar.

And for a second, it hits him again, the memory from the cistern with It and what it did to her, what he caused-

"No," She says and lifts him by the chin to meet her eyes.

A half shake of her head and, "That wasn't you," She meets his eyes and doesn't dare look away, "That wasn't your fault."

His eyes are shining still, with the remnants of tears from the hellish night he had before now. Before she took his face in her hands and brought him back. But he nods.  _It wasn't my fault_.

It's hard to truly believe that, even if somewhere, deep down, he knows it actually is the truth. That his parents took it out on him and he took it out on himself and none of them should have done that. It's hard to look at the scar stretching from hip bone to hip bone, still easy to see to this day, without feeling a pang of guilt thrum through him. But he keeps hearing those words in his head over and over again. It wasn't your fault. And as he thinks it through, her hand still holding his chin, he starts to believe it a little more with every passing second.

The tip of her thumb grazes his bottom lip and he leans into the touch.

"Are you really alright?" Y/N asks.

In answer, her ducks his head back to the scar, and kisses it. His hands are holding either hip like she's some precious, valuable piece of art and she doesn't know what to do with the feeling that gives her. He smiles against her skin, kissing along the length of that brutal scar without hesitation.

His eyes flick back up to her for a brief moment and he pauses, knowing he'd want to hear it to if he were her, that he did the same thing earlier.

He's practically itching to get his hands on her, especially now that she's looking at him in a way that he's not sure if she knows makes him feel needy and desperate and redirects his attention back to her hipbone. Where the scar at last ends. When nights like these happen, she's always checking in on him every few minutes and though he'd be a damn liar if I he said he didn't appreciate and love it, he needs her. In a very different, more final way.

Around a tentative, careful peck to the edge of her scar, he says, "Yes."

Since closing the curtains, the light in the room has been fairly low. With the lamp as their only light source, it's only just light enough for them to see each other through the partial darkness. Sounds of the storm sometimes peek through the shut curtains and music she'd put on to try to drown out the thunder while he calmed down, but that's an afterthought now and the storm has entirely slipped his mind. With her laying out in front of him like this, there isn't much else he could focus on if he tried.

He runs a fingertip along the lace hem of those downright gorgeous panties, admiring them before he knows he'll be inevitably sliding them down her legs. They definitely aren't part of what Beverly and Richie had given her, which was something they'll have to try another time, when she feels like figuring out how to work all of the clasps and straps on the beautiful, but over the top lingerie they gifted her for Christmas. This is more her, he realizes, as he dips a finger underneath the hem. Not the usual pair of cotton underwear, but probably something she picked up on the rare occasion she feels like wearing the kind of less comfortable, but much more visually pleasing pair of undergarments.

Visually pleasing indeed, he decides and pulls them off of her without another thought to spare.

Bill settles himself between her legs, already making her head fall back into the bed by sucking lightly into the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Every shuddering breath and tensing jerk of her abdomen, he registers and practically feels himself. The sensation of his teeth nipping every so lightly at that soft bit of skin just outside of where she's needing him is indescribable. It's only enough to pull her in, but it's not what he knows she seeks and that's exactly why he stays there; leaving love bites in his wake and leaving her hanging on the edge of oblivion itself, so close to where she's aching for.

There's a palpable change in the air surrounding them when he finally obliges her.

And the sound she lets out is nothing short of obscene at the first unleashed, openmouthed kiss he presses to her core.

He has to pin her hips down to keep them from lifting or moving too much, because she's practically writhing against his face and though he truly doesn't mind the idea of her riding his face, her movement is getting in the way of him doing his job.

The first kiss was giving in to everything she wanted, unashamedly moving his tongue up her and kissing her, arms wrapped around her legs while she rolled her hips into him. But now, he pulls back slightly, realizing he'd been too quick and hasty and starts with teasing little kisses and licks to her clit that have her keening.

He can very vividly recall the very first time he did this to her. When they had all the experience you'd expect perpetually sexually frustrated young adults to have: none, and he was so fumbling and awkward and the only guide he had was a sexy romance novel he'd dug out of his mom's bookcase with no small amount of shame. She enjoyed herself and that was all that mattered, but looking back on it he always laughs to himself and is endlessly relieved that things have been improved upon since then.

"Bill," The word is soft and desperate, her hand carding through his hair while he effectively begins to break her in the best way possible.

With that, he gives her more and the response is exactly what he craved. It makes the ache of his erection straining against his underwear much worse; involuntary, soft moans that render him absolutely helpless.

One of her legs is lifted over his shoulder, the other laying on top of where his arm is wrapped around it to keep her pinned to the bed while his tongue sweeps her center in a particularly knee-weakening lick. His free hand slides from her right leg, down the lower plane of her abdomen, and between her legs. He gently presses one into her, careful not to make it to fast or hard since it's the first  _anything_ of this intensity since she gave birth and if you don't take caution, the first time after that experience can be incredibly painful. She read that it depends on the person, just like how soon you'll be ready depends on the woman, how painful it will be or how easily turned on you may be, depends on the person.

It makes her suck in a sharp breath through her teeth when she feels him slowing pumping a finger inside of her. The feeling of that wonderful mouth of his on her clit helps ease the pain and at least distract from how tight she can tell she is around him. It's a pain that's easy to get over though. For the first few seconds, she has to clench her jaw and wince through the initially hurt of it, but then the pressure eases and the discomfort fades with every kiss and lick he gives her.

With every finger he adds, that initial pressure and discomfort increases, but at this point, the pleasure so obviously outweighs the pain and now that he's not pinning her down, she arches into it; head tilted far back into the sheets and fingers tugging on his hair every time it becomes so overwhelming that there's nothing else to do. And so she lets go and lets him turn her into a moaning, gasping mess in his arms.

But as she's starting to reach where it feels like everything and nothing, like oblivion is just on the edge of that cliff and all she'd need is little push to get there, he pulls away.

She sits up, after letting out a whine at the loss of contact that bordered on embarrassing, and props herself up on her elbows to look down at him.

"Patience is a v-v-virtue you know?" Bill says, moving to crawl on top of her before she grabs him by the wrists.

They're sitting, her face mere inches from his, while he partially hovers over her, his height practically dwarfing her and yet, with her hands gripping his wrists, he feels much smaller.

"You talk too much," is all she says before turning them around and straddling his lap.

His arms envelop her instantly, the change in position giving his neglected hard-on some well-deserved attention with only the layer of his underwear separating them now. One layer too much, they both decide, and eagerly get them off of him with hands that are itching to explore and grasp and touch. It's been too long. Far too long for them, since they've always been fairly active if they were to say so themselves. (And if anyone were to ask any one of the Losers, there would be groans and a billion comments about ridiculous they are. Stan told them they need to stop groping each other like horny teenagers and Richie always tells them they fuck like rabbits but then amends that he is in no way one to call someone out on fucking too much considering his own habits).

They aren't always so ravenous. There will be spans of time where they don't do anything at all and simply go through their days and weeks as normal without really wanting to do anything because either he's incredibly focused on writing a new book or she's exhausted from work. But times like this happen after those spans of time they go without reaching for each other at all and realize how long it really has been, though this recent one was longer than any sexless phase they've ever gone through.  _Months_ has been unheard of since that first weekend they spent together in this room nine years ago.

So it's safe to say they're both dying from anticipation and after what he did to her, she's more than ready.

"Please," Y/N murmurs into his mouth after a few idle minutes of kissing and clawing at one another, "Please, Bill," His name fell off her lips so softly that he could barely hear it from where he's sat underneath her.

They're both scrambling and tugging at each other, teeth clashing together while they kiss as he lifts his hips up slightly to meet her's.

All of the hastiness and near violent kissing and tugging halts the moment he makes the first push into her. Her teeth bite down on her lower lip at the unfamiliar pain so hard that it draws a few small pricks of bright red blood from her kiss-swollen lips. The storm has calmed enough that neither of them can be bothered to hear or notice it, the house is still and silent, they're still and silent; his hands rubbing her back the only movement he makes out of fear of hurting her.

Bill lets out a sound that makes her abdomen flinch, a barely audible whine at the feeling of her tight around him. His forehead is pressed to her collarbone while they stay this way, briefly frozen in shock and adjustment to the sudden sensations, and he's nearly panting with the effort of keeping still inside her.

It's hard for her too at first, but even with how much he'd helped prepare her for it, months of nothing has made her nowhere near prepared for this again. Nowhere near as painful as it had been the first time, where tears literally pricked her eyes when he first was inside of her, but he can barely stand to see her wincing right now.

It's her though, that makes that first move and she flattens her palms against his chest, and lays him onto his back, following him down until she's lying on top of him. Still inside of her, his jaw clenches in restraint, the pure bliss of finally getting some kind of pleasure overwhelming enough that he has to keep himself from finishing right there.

Y/N holds herself up with her arms resting on either side of his head and her fingers brush gently through strands of reddish hair and their eyes meet; the blue of his so vibrant and alive compared to when he'd come home tonight. His hands slide down the length of her back from where they'd been resting at her shoulders to her hips, where she slowly moves against him.

It breaks them both, the loving, slow kind of fucking that could bring tears to your eyes.

It does bring tears to their eyes actually, but she rolls her hips on him, every thrust starting slow and gentle and needing and ending a little more intense than the last.

The room is filled with their steadily growing sounds, with one thrust she accidentally goes rougher than she intended to and it makes him groan, the sound finer than any music she's ever heard and, desperate to hear it again, she keeps going until _he's_  the one who's a moaning mess in her arms. Every brush of his hands on her skin feels like heaven captured in the form of movement and she doesn't know what to do, how to think or function as that beautifully familiar feeling stirs in the pit of her abdomen.

It doesn't take long for her to tug him on top of her after that first initial feeling began to stir and it was like something that had been sleeping beneath her skin had snapped into place at it.

She whispers hotly into his mouth, her mouth thrown slightly askew off of his with every thrust, "Don't hold back, please," A tug where her hand is threaded into his hair, "Please."

Bill is incapable of keeping himself at bay now and with her begging for it...

The sound of the headboard banging into the wall fully drowns out the sounds of the rain and music and everything outside of the room. Outside of them and what they have. She clings to him, as if if she let go she would fall away from him despite the bed beneath them, and her mouth hangs open slightly in a silent moan against his jaw. The world slipping away around them, he sloppily kisses at her cheekbone and buries himself in her again and again chasing that endless euphoria that's been so close.

His hand slides in the space between their bodies and finds that now overly sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. He watches as she loses all composure at his fingertips rubbing circles into her to coax out all kinds of filthy sounds that do nothing but push him further towards that delightful edge.

Between the moans and music and headboard, he hears her muttering something under her breath and at first he couldn't hear it, but then she begins to kiss him and cup his face in her hands. She's so close she can practically feel it and words simply fall off her lips without her even realizing she's saying them, "I love you."

That was what she had been muttering as she came closer and closer to her high.

She shatters in his arms, her fingernails digging into his skin so hard that they leave crescent marks behind on his shoulder blades. Her climax hits her, unrelenting and strong, while he helps her ride it out with a hand still slipped between them and his hips hitting her's hard. And when he presses a kiss to her mouth amid the chaos, as much of sweet and soft kiss as he can manage, she knows that was his way of saying it back. Since, right now, it's especially hard for him to speak. But she heard it, loud and clear, and even as he finds his end, chases it desperately, she can hear it.

When Bill comes, he's still kissing her and has to stop as he moans and the already sloppy movements he was making falter completely. It's breathtaking-the sight and sound of him when he finishes with a moan inside of her.

For a long while, they stay tangled up with one another in the near silence of the bedroom where they'd spent so many years together. He pulled out of her, both of them tensing with the sudden change and loss of contact, and collapsed onto the bed beside her.

Tonight had been awful  _and_ good. It's hard for either of them to think anything outside of good thoughts after what just happened, but it starts to come back to them once they lay there together. Her chin is resting on his shoulder while he runs a thumb over her temple and her eyes flutter shut at the soothing strokes of his hand along her head. It started out with him remembering everything and despite the years between that fated night and now...remembering anything that traumatic could do much more than make someone have a breakdown. She can't imagine what might have happened if it were her. A part of her, deep down, wishes it had been. So he wouldn't have to deal with this guilt and pain. That undeserved mammoth amount of guilt.

His hand is still absentmindedly stroking her hair when she opens her mouth to speak.

"Why didn't you talk to me? I could've helped you, but..."

He waits for her to continue and watches her as she pauses, searching for what to possibly say.

"You went into the sewers," Y/N says, "Why?"

Bill's chest sinks with a heavy exhale and he contemplates it.

Why did he go there? Against all logic and reason, he returned back to the place where one of the worst moments of his life happened to him. A place he very well knows all of his friends would never go back into again as long as they could help it. And yet he charged down there tonight, sobbing and angry and confused, for about a million different reasons. Part of it was to get out of this damn house. After days of being trapped in here, his still parents present but not truly present, he felt like he was trapped in the past. A world where a young boy, reeling from grief and pain that went years beyond his maturity level, turned into a ghost.

She lays now with her arms folded across his chest and her chin propped on her interlaced fingers, waiting for his response.

"I felt like I had to. T-T-There was this tug, it felt like something was pulling me down there. I c-chose to go, but," He shakes his head.

Fear, sharp and plentiful, rises within her.

"You don't think it was It..." Y/N murmurs.

"I don't know."

If it was It, they aren't sure what they're going to do. It isn't back, not yet, but if it can still have some kind of control over them while it's gone for the next thirteen years, then what else can it do? Is it really gone if it can do these kinds of things? But on the other hand, it may not have been It and it truly might be gone. For now, he remembers with no small amount of aching dread, it's gone for now.

His voice is hushed and only loud enough to reach his ears, his arms tightening around her, "I m-m-miss Warner."

And that's when she sees the tears in his eyes and she feels herself sigh, as if she were waiting to see which one of them would have to be the first one to say it. At the sound of his name, that adorable baby boy's face appears in her mind and melts her heart.

She might be biased because he's their son, but Warner is...unbelievable. He's the one she has a hard time believing is real. Every day she wakes up and sees his face and can't believe that there's actually a life they've made for themselves where that kind of joy and love is possible. After the horrors they endured, that Bill went through all over again these past few days, they have  _him_ waiting for them.

"I miss our spawn too," Y/N says, chuckling at the name Richie gave him, "I wonder what he's up to right now."

"Sleeping I hope, or he's eating and woke up one of the L-L-Losers."

Her smile widens for a second and she runs a hand along the length of his shoulder.

"Who do you think probably got the most attached to him while we were gone? I think Eddie."

He scoffs, then begins to shake his head and looks down at where she rests on him incredulously, "No way, it's R-R-Richie. He likes to pretend he isn't, but he's obsessed with him. He's p-probably not letting anyone else hold him while Stan follows him around, telling him to give him back to Bev or Mike."

They both begin to laugh, the picture easy to see in their heads of their family back home. Of the Trashmouth denying it, but clearly loving their son and hogging him while the rest of them literally beg him to let them have a turn at taking care of him. Despite his protests, Y/N knows that's exactly what must be happening.

But after a few long moments, the laughter dies down and they're left without a buffer between now and what happened a few hours ago, when Bill had biked to Neibolt, throwing all caution to the wind, and went back into the sewers.

The warmth of his skin beneath her cheek is the only thing that keeps her from tearing up again at the thought of what he did and the state he'd come back to her in. He hadn't been that bad in years and one trip back to this place...she doesn't want to think about it. The inevitable, what they might have to do, face later on, and what he said to her tonight about everything being his fault. It's all too much and is why she avoided telling him about coming here. It wasn't right and he deserved to know, that much she can admit, but it was her own fear that lead her to do it. To want to run and hide and never have to face this town again despite every promise they made to each other, their friends.

"It isn't dead. You know that, right?" She finally says, the conversation they'd had on the floor earlier an echo in her mind.

There it is. What she's been avoiding ever since they left this place. Hell, ever since it disappeared the first time. It isn't a possibility she ever wanted to confront until this trip snuck up on her.

He's quiet at first, chest halting its movement as his breath catches in his throat at the thought. It wasn't that she wasn't thinking about It or agonizing over it as much as he had been, about whether their son will be safe or not. No, she had simply shoved it down and decided not to look at it. To consider coming back here to defeat it a possibility. For the sake of her own sanity. But seeing what it did to him tonight, the hiding and the forgetting, sprung her to this.

"I know."

Has known for a very long time. That was why they made the promise.

"And we'll have to come back here to kill it."

A very, very solemn look crosses his features and he stares up at the ceiling.

"Yes," He says.

This is when she sits over top of him slightly more, her hand turning his face to look at her while she traces his lips with her thumb. It takes a minute or so for her to stop ingraining the image of him into her mind. Every curve and edge of his face, his lips and how they feel beneath her fingertip, those eyes. But it's the recollection of the fact that their son has those eyes now as well that makes her hold her head up a little higher and nod to herself, a decision being made.

"For Warner?" Her voice is steadier now.

And this makes him smile sadly, the memory of someone he couldn't save in time fresh in the back of his mind. He interlaces his fingers with her's, squeezing her hand once.

Bill says in agreement, "For Warner."

-

Morning, more like midday-three hours before their flight, comes too quickly for their liking and along with it, comes home his parents, as always oblivious to all that is going on with their son good or bad.

The last hour they had before having to lug their bags downstairs to load them into the car was bittersweet.

It was their last hour in Derry. That is, until they must return again whether they like it or not. The only thing they can be thankful of is that this visit was on their terms rather than some preternatural murderous being's. They spent a long time that day lying in bed beside each other before his parents arrived back home from his grandparents' house, talking and kissing and listening to music while they laid in bed just like the old days when they actually lived here. When Sharon and Zach did return though, they got dressed to meet them downstairs and began packing. There is a lot of evil in this town. It's plain and simple. Yet there was also a lot that he got from it, outside of the grief, pain, and neglect, that was good. The Losers, Y/N...this was the place where Warner became a possibility. That day they first met. He wouldn't live here ever again, even if you paid him. But he didn't get nothing from Derry, that'd be a lie.

It's sunny, but cold out when Bill and Y/N are carrying their suitcases to the car.

Sharon walked them out and she is thankful now, as he slams the trunk shut to approach the driver's side door where she stands, that he did. She isn't as bad as his father. That's all the praise the woman would get from her. And she can admit, albeit begrudgingly due to her dislike for her since childhood, that she tried. At least she had tried.

He and his mother stand apart at first. But after meeting eyes, the first bit of a loving mother's gaze he's gotten since he was a young boy peeking through her eyes, his arms engulf her in a hug.

"You grew up so fast," Sharon says with a soft laugh to cover up the emotion in her voice, "I can't believe my baby has a baby."

For her sake, he laughs softly into her shoulder at that, savoring the contact, since it's one of the first in years and likely to be the last for a long while. What she did wasn't-he can't begin to imagine what kind of person would neglect their child. Not now that he would tear the world apart for his, but he decides to take what he can get for now. Knowing that shell never be for him what he wished her to be, that she was never half of the mother his wife already is, but tightening his arms around her and pretending that there was a world where he wasn't a ghost. A world where they moved on together and he found a way to get them to love him again. Anything other than what had really happened.

"I'll come back," A pause and he starts to pull back, "I promise."

Y/N's heart aches for him. For the helpless bit of hope and love in his eyes that had been so clear to see when he hugged her. No matter how much he wants to, she doesn't think he'll ever be able to hate them. Not truly. He's said it once or twice before, but the sad reality is that he keeps coming back. Against all logic and reason, because it's his mother and there once was a world before the sorrow and neglect, where she was his mother. In the way Y/N is to Warner.

The sound of the front door opening and his dad stepping out onto the porch does pull their attention away from each other though.

Zach has always been hard on him. He was less neglectful than her, yet colder. Never outright saying anything, but putting blame on Bill. For Georgie. For everything. Bill still walks up to the porch to say goodbye though.

Leaving her and Sharon.

"Let's give them some privacy," She says as form of invitation and sets off down the driveway.

They never really talked. Not outside of greetings and forced conversations. Which is why it surprises her that she follows her around the bend of the driveway to the sidewalk, where they begin to walk slowly, side by side past the neighbor's house.

Outside of the slight wind that brings a chill over her face and their feet on concrete, there isn't a sound. The snow melted a few days ago and dead grass shoulders them on either side. For how much she loves winters up at their cabin, she's surprised she dislikes Derry's winters so much. It always felt dull and dreary. Versus the lively version of winter. With roaring fireplaces, sweaters, cups of warm tea, and an impossible amount of snow surrounding the cozy little home they have for themselves whenever they long for an escape from their lives. Maybe Derry had always been this dreary and dull, yet its winter was the only time that reflected it fully.

Sharon speaks first, once they're a safe distance from the house to not be heard, "I'm glad it was you."

Though she wishes they hadn't, the first reaction she had and first words that came to her mind were,  _I don't desire your approval._  But she has no intention of saying it. It was a surprise to hear though. They liked her enough to be civil, was what they both guessed after they told his parents they were together as teenagers, but never made a point of saying they actually liked her. Or thought she was who they thought was best for him; not that either of them cared since they were so in love that no one's opinions of their relationship could have tainted what they had.

"Thank you, really, but-" She has to rally the gall to say it, "With all due respect, we don't really know each other well at all."

A nod, "That's not your fault-or his."

Y/N stays silent, giving her a chance to sort out what it is she wants to say because she recognizes the look on her face instantly. Bill makes the same one when he's contemplating something or about to speak when the need to do so is so dire he's nearly bursting with anticipation. That was from her, she realizes, he got that from her.

The wind blows the red and grey tresses of hair, the only spark of color among the dull grey and white tones of Derry's winter, back off of the older woman's frail shoulders.

"It was mine," His mom says, the first real show of her personality to his wife-ever, "It was really hard for our family after-" She paused for a moment, her face hardening, "after we lost George. Zach stopped, I stopped, Bill stopped, everything just  _stopped_."

"Bill didn't."

She would be the one to know since she was the only one looking after him between the two of them. No, he threw himself into the pits of hell trying to avenge his brother and crawled back up covered in blood and guilt. But Bill Denbrough did not  _stop_.

"I know I wasn't the best mother and he probably felt a bit lonely after it-"

"A bit?"

Y/N stops her with a hand on her shoulder, that fire he loves so dearly blazing in her eyes as she speaks. Keeps from lashing out entirely, "He was a  _child._ "

Now is when everything truly does stop. Sharon's breath is caught in her throat at having to behold the force of nature in front of her, the woman she didn't expect to be creeping beneath the surface, the woman he fell in love with for that spark, that fire, coming to his defense as they never did, holding her accountable for what no one but the Losers had.

"I'm not trying to shame you for history that happened years ago, or make you upset, but do you not know how many times I had to hold him as he cried? How many times he was let down by you and his dad?" Her breath clouds in front of her with every exhale, "He loved him too. He was broken when Georgie died, but he didn't have the luxury of being allowed to stop. He had the bravery and the strength for the two of you."

Derry itself is still, to behold Y/N Denbrough.

She shakes her head and says quietly, but not weakly, "He wasn't a little bit lonely and, I'm sorry if this is a rude awakening or makes you wish it weren't me, but Bill was neglected.  _You_  neglected him."

It is utterly and completely silent.

It stays that way for much longer than she feels comfortable with, but she has said all she needs to say. At least it's out there now. At least those unspoken words aren't looming over her head every time the aftershocks of what they didn't even realize they were doing to him appeared and made his day that much harder to get through. That was why she avoided his parents. That fire, that bitter resentment, was why. She supposes it no longer matters now.

Sharon is standing with her hands shoved into her coat pockets, a foot or so in front of her, and her eyes clear for a moment in the wake of her words. As if it all clicked, if only for a second.

Then, with a subtle nod before she walks away back to the house, "I'm still glad it was you."

Everything she wanted to say...gone. And she's left shivering a few houses down from their house on Witcham street, pouring over all that had been said; her heart pounding to the beat of a wild drum in her chest.

That had been years of frustration and confusion trapped inside of her and, for a second, she wonders if his mom is going back to tell Zach what she had said, to get someone to come to her side against such an accusation. But after waiting a few moments in the cold, fingertips freezing to the point of numbness while she figures her husband is busy saying his goodbyes, there is no counter argument or a lazy attempt at deflecting. There was only, what she hadn't realized in that last sentence, acceptance.

_It was starting to get darker by the time she left the arcade from an afternoon of hanging out with Richie and Beverly. The conversations and activities of the day still fresh in her mind on that June afternoon, there was a soft smile on her face that she didn't register as she poured over everything._

_Richie kept joking and saying he was taking the both of them on a date (which they both vehemently denied but still cackled at every comment he made about it). They mostly just played video games, ate, and then hung out outside the arcade, but it was a happy day for the three._

_Bill had canceled on them last minute because his parents had, for once, said they wanted him home for a family dinner, which rooted a disappointment in her she didn't want to acknowledge, but her other friends made up for that. Plus, it was clear to them all how rare it was for Mr. And Mrs. Denbrough to even notice him after their younger son passed away and none of them had a problem in encouraging him to go._

_She hadn't taken her bike to the Arcade and instead hopped on the handlebars of Bev's bike instead, deciding that it wouldn't be too much trouble to walk home anyway._

_It felt strangely cold for being late June and she remembers crossing her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands up and down her arms over the goosebumps raised by the chill in the air that surrounded her as she made her shortcut through the woods to West Broadway. It was the street adjacent to Witcham street, a place she often found herself subconsciously walking or biking to on any normal weekend. Her house was at the very end of it, on the corner of Jackson street. So, she took the way through the woods to have more time to walk by herself, think to herself._

_The woods were quiet and the treetops made the already dimming light of nightfall feel almost entirely dark. There were a few rays of light that peeked through the gaps between tangled branches and leaves high above, but for the most part, she was shrouded in unfamiliar cold and darkness. It never seemed this cold or dark on any other day she'd walk through the woods, even with the threat of the missing children looming over them all, there was no hesitation to take a stroll by herself. It gave her an escape from anything that was on her mind. Like the little fights she'd overhear her parents having when they thought she wasn't listening or the weight of knowing kids her age are going missing left and right. It helped her feel at ease...but today it only made it worse._

_There's was a preternatural silence that fell over the area. One moment, there had been the chirp of birds and rustling of the leaves in the breeze, the next everything felt still. Too still._

_Y/N straightened her back and walked a little bit faster, eyes sweeping from left to right, looking over her shoulder but nothing._ You're being paranoid. _Her best friend's father in Elementary school, before she met Eddie who introduced her to Richie who introduced her to Bill and Stan, was a cop. He told them all kinds of stories from before they moved to Derry and they stuck with her, so she brushed it off as her ridiculous paranoia._

_Her boots snapped a twig underneath her careful steps as she crept silently, but swiftly, through the thicket of trees. There was still that sense of danger she didn't want to accept. But it was undeniable. Something was off and ignoring instinct, what her gut told her to do, often was a recipe for disaster. But that day, what she didn't realize was that your senses can betray you and something was persuading her not to run. Something had a hold on her. It was lurking._

_She began to move a little faster without realizing it, her body urging her forward from danger, and soon enough she was almost speed walking._

_Something wasn't right. It was too quiet, too cold, too dark for a summer afternoon._

_The moment she looked away from the path ahead of her to glance over her shoulder, was when it had struck._

_There wasn't any warning other than the feeling of a pair of hands yanking her from where she stood. And instantly, she began to scream as loudly as she could because at the very tips of those fingers were claws that dug into her arms. Not enough to pierce the skin, but just enough to hurt. To scare her._

_"Let me go!" Y/N screamed and thrashed as she was being carried through the woods with an unnatural swiftness, back further in._

_Away from the street that was so close, away from where people could hear her..._

_"Get off of me!" Her hand balled into a fist, aiming for anything she could hit but it didn't recoil at the strong punches, "Fuck off-"_

_The wind was knocked out of her when she was let go of and flung against the trunk of a tree, her captor not as close as she'd anticipated them to be, but instead across from her at the end of the tiny clearing. It was still dark here-how is it still dark here? The last time she checked her watch it was seven and in the summer the sun never dipped below the horizon by then. But nothing else mattered, not the light or the silence or the chill, when she saw the clown._

_And that was the first time Y/N had ever experienced genuine fear._

_Not like those times they'd sneak into R-rated horror movies and she'd have to flip up the armrest dividing them and hide her face in Bill's neck or practically cut off the circulation in Stan's hand, or when she and Beverly got in trouble with an adult for smoking behind the Library. That wasn't real fear, she realized as her eyes fell on that_ thing, _no, that was nothing compared to what she felt in the moment she saw It for the first time._

_"Let me go," Y/N tried to say firmly, but the waver in her voice betrayed her._

_It wouldn't have mattered anyway, whether she mastered her fear and spoke without flaw, whether she could overcome the tremor of her hands scraping against the bark of the tree behind her, It could scent the fear on her._

_The clown was tall, practically towered over her even from across the clearing, and it's smile, though most young children would find it funny and inviting, made her throat sting. It didn't register that it was the one twisting her senses and luring her into a less heightened state of panic that would've had her running from it too quickly. She wasn't stupid enough to be charmed by the clown or for one second believe that she wasn't in danger after that introduction. No, she could see all of the thoughts of what it'd do if it got her in its grasp. Naivety, thank heavens, wasn't a trait of her's._

_"Why would you want to go?" The voice was cheery and light and surprised her, "We're having so much fun! All the kids have fun with Pennywise."_

_Fun? Hadn't it just-her thoughts stumbled and the memory almost began to slip from her mind, like someone was about to pluck it from her head like a slip of paper but she clung to it._

_That name sounded familiar. As if Mike had told her about a history book of Derry he read and that name...it rung a bell. But she wasn't the historian Mike Hanlon was and she couldn't place exactly what it had been from. But she was right about the familiarity. A few weeks ago, she was talking in the public library to the boy she made friends with last summer and he was so passionate about it. He told her everything, practically recited the book word for word. And mentioned the disappearances of children at a family carnival back in 1933. It was a picture in that boo he showed her of a caravan painted with the name of a clown working at that carnival._

_Pennywise._

_"I-" Y/N glanced in the direction that she knew the road was in, "It's just that my parents want me home soon and I'm not supposed to stop..."_

_They couldn't have cared less. It wasn't like they never monitored her or neglected her like the Denbroughs, more so that as long as she's home by eight or calls them from a friend's house by the time the sun goes down, it's alright._

_Pennywise smiled in a way that made her skin crawl and started to walk forward. All she needed to do was run as fast as she could._

_It's laugh was even worse._

_"They can come too! Do you have friends? Everyone loves the circus, Y/N."_

It knows my name.

 _There were details about it that came into light the more it crept closer to her. She felt frozen, back ramrod straight and eyes wide no matter how she tried to school her face into neutrality, as she stared into the eyes of the devil._ Kids have been going missing, you don't want to be the next one... _All she could think of was how stupid she was for not asking Bev or Richie for a ride home or taking her own bike. How stupid she'd been in walking alone through the woods with a murderer snatching kids-_

_"You do like the circus, don't you? Bring Beverly, bring Mike, bring Billy, we'll allll float!"_

_Everything blurred in her peripheral vision when she pushed off the tree trunk and sprinted for the direction of the road to their right._

_Her muscles barked with the sudden movement, but she forced herself to move as fast as she's ever moved before. Adrenaline already was pumping through her and she wasn't going to waste it._

_But there was something It had on her. She was a mere human..._

_It had felt like the world had been knocked out from beneath her feet. The mossy ground met her cheek hard and there was a vicious, animalistic growl from behind her. There was screaming-_ she _was screaming. And the tears on her cheeks were unnoticeable in the midst of such terror._

_The ground was soft under her hands and she dug into the earth with all of the strength she had. What was it going to do to her? If she knew that her fate was to be eaten alive, the screams surely would've been worse. It's hands, claws retracted for the sake of getting a handle on the thrashing body of its next victim, yanked on her by the ankles and she jolted back a few feet; moss and dirt flying up from where her fingers had dug into the soil to find purchase._

_Her chest fell with her wailing sobs and she desperately clawed at the ground to crawl forward, rasping, "Oh god, I'm gonna die-"_

_The following scream that escaped her mouth pierced her own ears and echoed throughout the woods. It's claws had punched out of the tips of its hands and shredded open the fabric of her jeans, blood rising through the slits of barely open skin to stain the white of those gloves red. There wasn't time to check if it was bad, all she could do was flee. All she could do was fight. And so she fought with everything she had. Any ounce of strength left in her, she shoved towards yanking one leg free and winding it up towards her chest then-Pennywise's nose crunched when the bottom of her boot kicked into its face._

_Y/N scrambled up faster than she ever remembered being able to move, faster than she should have been able to move, as if someone was helping her and giving her strength. As if someone had gripped her by the shoulders and raised her to her feet._

_The branches of the trees cut open the soft skin on her cheeks. She barreled through the brush without looking behind her, threw her legs out in front of her with the kind of strength she never knew she possessed and stomped through vegetation. It was hot on her tail but there wasn't anything that could stop her. It was a mantra with every thundering beat of her heart she could hear in her ears;_ I have to live I have to live I have to live. _Thorns cut her and she had to duck to dodge some of the heavier branches. Yet still, it was only one step behind being able to get a grasp on her. Perhaps if Beverly hadn't plaited her hair to her head when they were waiting for Richie to come out of the bathroom today, since her redheaded friend has always had a talent for it, it would've been able to yank her back by her hair. Maybe she wasn't meant to die._

 _Blurs of green swathes of color all around her, the chill, the silence other than her pants and screams and It's snarls from behind, the darkness, all surrounded her. And then sunlight. Leaves ripping away from her at last as she bathes in the sunlight, feet smacking down on black pavement with no hesitation._ It'll still follow me, I need to run _. There aren't many people out anymore because of the hour. With all of the disappearances, a lot of people turn in early and right about now is when most families would be finishing up dinner, but her folks aren't like most. For once, between the sprinting and crying and bleeding, she wishes that they'd ordered her to come home or that Beverly made her get on the handlebars of her bike as she had offered before they all parted ways. None of it mattered at that point though._

_Sunset was just starting to break on the town of Derry as Y/N frantically turned the corner onto Witcham street. The tears blurred her vision, she couldn't make out much after a few inches in front of her, the entire time. Whether It was still following her, which it wasn't, she wouldn't have known. It watched from the trees until she rounded the corner._

_But there was someone approaching her._

_Bill Denbrough felt his heart sink into his gut everytime his mother and father dismissed him. Anytime they walked right by without so much as a "how are you" or "I love you", that rotting, aching corner of his heart that had rotted when Georgie died got a little bigger._

_That's why when they told him they wanted to have a family dinner together yesterday, he was happier than he'd been in months. All of the Losers could see the slight shift in him when they went swimming yesterday. He was laughing and smiling more than he had since before Georgie died and none of them knew how to handle it. When he told them about his parents they were grateful but skeptical. They tried not to let it show, though it did and he ignored it as much as he could._

_Inevitably, their skepticism was well-earned and he waited for four hours for his parents to get home to spend time with him only to sit in silence. Alone. At first, he wanted to believe they were running late and that they remembered him. That they really did want to spend the afternoon talking to him and making up for lost time. But then another hour passed, then two more, and tears began to sting his face. It was only a few more minutes before he wiped them from his eyes and walked outside to pick up Silver, to see if his friends were still at the Arcade._

Maybe Y/N would be up for listening and we could come back to the house to eat dinner and play board games.

_Y/N was...there was something about their friendship that was always different from the rest of his relationships with the Losers. She could understand him without even having to try. Sure, sometimes they were awkward and fumbling and there was always a smidge of unresolved tension between them whenever they were alone, but she simply got him. Whenever his parents couldn't be bothered to talk to him or acknowledge him, he biked over to her house and they'd hang out. They never had to talk about it if he didn't want to. She never pushed him. They came together whenever it got too rough in their own lives and expected nothing but the company._

_At exactly the same time he began to pedal out of his driveway, she came bursting out of the woods and sprinted around the corner onto his street. It wasn't what he was expecting to see upon leaving his house._

_Y/N was still heaving and sobbing, her muscles shaking, blood dripping slowly from the scratches on either leg. Five each, from every claw that it dug into skin to pull her back. Every thought was still consumed with continuing on, living, and outrunning whatever It was she escaped from back in the forest._

_The sound of her scream when his hands grabbed her by the shoulders to halt her running made him flinch. He had let Silver drop in the middle of the street and ran the rest of the way to her the second he realized who was the one running at full speed towards him._

_"Let go!" She barked at him._

_Thinking that whatever got ahold of her was Pennywise, there wasn't anything she held back._

_And it scared the living shit out of Bill._

_There was blood. He felt like someone was closing a vice around his heart, he'd never seen her so upset,_ this _was_ his _first experience of genuine fear, it was wrong, he needed to fix it, someone hurt his-_

_Her fists landed hits on him that would leave bruises on his torso for weeks._

_Cries of pure, undiluted terror flew from her and her face was soaked with her own tears as she bucked in his arms and tried with all of her might to kick the shit out of whatever was taking her away._ I won't let it kill me _, the voice in the back of her mind roared._

_The sound of his voice was buried beneath her yells and attempts at breaking free._

_"Y/N!"_

_"Get the fuck off of me!" Her words were slurred through rasping sobs, "I don't wanna die,_ please _, I don't wanna die!"_

_Her hands were still swinging and her nails, caked with dirt and blood, scratched at anything she could get to. She was hurting him. That was the only time she ever hurt him._

_He tried to scream louder than she did, "Y/N!"_

_Bill's arms tightened around her after she'd started facing him and he managed to force her around to see his face. Her eyes were squeezed shut. But he didn't stop trying. Her fingernails were rough from breaking when she dug her hands into the ground before and on one particularly hard scratch, a small drop of blood bloomed against his pale skin._

_Neither noticed._

_She was babbling helplessly under her breath words that he couldn't discern. He didn't know if she was praying, they never talked about religion, didn't know if she was begging for mercy or for a swift, painless death. He was more concerned about what the hell happened._ If Bowers even touched a hair on her head- _anger flooded him, but it left as soon as it came when she cried out again._

_There was nothing he could do, but keep trying to bring her back to him._

_"Y/N!" He shook her shoulders to no avail, "Y-Yuh-You need to open your eyes."_

_Familiarity was behind that bubble that seemed to surround her and block everything out. There was compassion and bravery and warmth. Home._

_"L-Look at me!"_

_Y/N blinked away the tears from her eyes with one last, trembling cry._

_It felt like when you're underwater for too long, when you're shoved under by a wave and feel like your lungs are on the verge of exploding, then the water calms and you see the light shining through the surface. Seeing his face was like filling your lungs with air after drowning._

_That strength that had come over her crumbled and she only pulled back slightly to look at him. Really look at him, wonder if it's really him. Then, she practically tackled him._

_Bill was nearly knocked off his feet with the sheer force of her throwing herself into his arms, but he kept himself upright. It wasn't hard to tell that her legs were almost giving out, so he kept his arms locked around her to stop that from happening. Let her squeeze the life out of him because she was crying harder than he'd ever seen someone cry before and didn't know what else to do other than hold her. That's what Beverly would've done, he figured, trying to weigh out what to do._

_After a few minutes went by, Y/N was still crying and clinging to him._

_She stammered into the fabric of his shirt, "I thought it was going to kill me, I thought you were-I didn't-didn't know it was you-I thought you were going to kill me."_

_If anyone had passed by, all they would've saw was a pathetic looking scene if they didn't know the background. She really was holding onto him for dear life._

_"Y-Y-You're bl-bleeding," He said_

_"The-The thing, it-"_

_Her knees buckled and he had to catch her._

_"I was walking home and I-It got me, I tried to run but it hurt me. Bill, I can't-"_

_It was hard to get any words out, but he knew he had to keep asking questions and keep her from regressing. Get her some help for whatever it was that was making her bleed._

_"I-You need to run-it might still be following me," The hyperventilation started to pick up again and he watched her bottom lip wobble._

_But he didn't let her start to pant too heavily or cry too much to the point of not letting out any sentences. His hands squeezed her shoulders tightly and pushed her back from him so their faces were further apart. So she could see him better._

_"You're s-safe."_

_There was no one else, nothing else on the street. Nothing was following them. She nodded even though the cries followed. Safe. They fell back onto each other again in a bone-crushing hug._

_"S-Stay with me," He said. The other words didn't need to be said, the offer for help and an open ear to listen, with them it was always a given, "I know it's hard to, but stay."_

Bill walks down to the edge of the driveway initially to check the trunk to make sure everything is packed while his parents head inside to grab the keys when he notices a figure out of the corner of his eye. Standing, hands at her sides, in the center of the sidewalk staring off at nothing. He furrows his eyebrows as he turns to get a better look at her, wondering what she's doing or why she isn't in the car yet and walks down the sidewalk to her.

His jacket is zipped up to his chin to fight the cold, but it still tinges his face with red on the tips of his ears and nose. There isn't much one can really do to keep away the cold this far north in the country, yet he tries anyway.

"Y/N?"

It takes a second, for the word to internalize and for her to start to be pulled back out of her swirling thoughts. Out of all that they've been through here together and all they're to face, all she just said to his mom.

But once it does register and she sees the man in front of her, everything feels heavy and she's suddenly very, very tired of being in this place. Glad to be going home soon. She throws herself into his arms so hard that it makes him stumble slightly, but then he straightens and embraces her tightly in return despite his confusion.

"You didn't deserve it," She whispers into where her face is buried into his neck, "The neglect, or the guilt or any of it. Never blame yourself."

He feels her squeeze him harder after she said that, as if letting go or easing up her grip on him would mean parting forever, and doesn't know what to say. How to say what all he feels. He knows he didn't deserve it, that blaming himself isn't right, despite what he feels sometimes. But he's never said that and they usually don't talk about that outright...about It or his parents. Those aren't topics they veered onto until more recently. So her words hit him where it counts and he almost feels himself melting in her touch.

And with her here with him, holding him and loving him with the kind of passion he knows is so rare that he should thank his lucky stars for her, it doesn't feel so cold.


	7. Salvation (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being separated for eleven years, Bill and Y/N reunite when they come back to Derry to kill It once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, here is the final part of Take It All. It's split into two chapters because it's too long to be published as one, so 7 and 8 are Part One and Part Two of the final chapter. I poured my heart and soul into this one and I absolutely love it. I hope you enjoy reading it! Leave a kudos and/or comment below if you liked it :)

**PART ONE**

The truth is a brutal, wild thing.

Y/N, unfortunately, happens to be acquainted with the ups and downs of the truths of her world. Terrible things happen all over the world while she sleeps soundly in her bedroom, her son only a step across the hallway should he need her, and that in itself is a blessing.

Truth; sometimes her life fulfills her. Sometimes all she needs is the grin of her thirteen-year-old boy while they sit on the floor and watch movies together or all she needs is the perfect, giggling laughter he lets out when she does something embarrassing or dorky in his presence.

Truth: other times her life feels like a hollow, empty shell of what it once had been and the only reason she keeps going through that staggering pit of loneliness and regret is to take care of him. At night, her hand slides along the cold, softly threaded sheet and she finds herself searching for a phantom in every stitch.

In the mornings of her days off work, after Warner is off to school for the day, she's alone. Sometimes might make a cup of coffee and grab a book off of the designated spot in her closet and read beside the window light until she can't bear it anymore and has to shut it, then stow it away in the box in the bottom corner of her closet. Other days she'll avoid anything that stirs up that familiar feeling in her and stuff it all down until there's nothing left. Every day it changes.

The truth is, Bill Denbrough forgot about her a long, long time ago.

And the brutality a life with only her and their son on their own was not something she was prepared for when it happened.

Y/N shakes her head, her eyebrows already beginning to furrow with a grimace, as if to clear her head of the memory of him.

It's midday and the sun's warmth, paired with the sweater that hangs loosely off her frame in the beginning heat of the summer, is nearly suffocating her.

Okay, maybe it isn't just the sun that has her chest tightening tenser and tenser every few moments and every heavy step closer to the store. It could be the nerves, stress, the whole situation really, that's driving her mad. Or maybe it's the truth; the swift brutality of it that knocked her off of her feet a few days ago when she got a call from a librarian in Derry named Mike Hanlon.

There were some parts of it that had left her, faded with time and distance, but it hadn't entirely evaded her.

Princeton, New Jersey, feels like a place she might have enjoyed with the company of someone beside her. It's a place she can safely say Warner would love with every piece of him and she's positive, if she were ever to bring him, she would have to drag him out of the town kicking and screaming to get him to go. Because she might very well have to drag herself away by the time she goes.

Where she lives, in a quaint little home with only the companionship of her son and their ancient pet cat, isn't too far from it. But Pennsylvania has always felt like a wasteland of green grass and void, desolate suburbs to her ever since moving. Philly, perhaps, was the only saving grace of her new state, yet the town a twenty-minute car ride away from the city she works in happens to be a place she can't relax in.

She tried. She tried every day for five long years before she gave in, kept telling herself he was the reason she hated the damn place, that the only reason she couldn't stand it is because he wasn't with her. Until Warner turned eight years old and she accepted the fact that nothing could feel the same without him. That she'd grown up with him, lived with him for more than half of her life, and none of that would leave her.

Life for Bill Denbrough has been a steady incline since leaving Derry after High School.

He went to college across the states, in Seattle, and lived there for ten whole years before he got tired of the city and the rhythm of his life there. There were a few novels he'd put out in that city, early in his career, that catapulted his writing into popularity. Yet other than that, life hadn't been much other than a repetitive routine of writing, then eating, sleeping, and going through the motions of a life alone.

If he were to be honest, he'd admit that those ten years blend together in his memory. As if all of them were one day he'd spent soldiering through a flu with a pounding headache and stuffy nose, that melded into the same thing. He only ever remembers it changing the day he moved away from the city that he resents somewhere deep inside, for reasons he can't figure out.

When he moved to Princeton that memory changes from a dial tone, lifeless kind of existence to something else entirely. Looking back on that time, at the books he barely remembers writing or the places he can't remember going or seeing, he wonders if he woke up when he left. If for the rest of his life, before, he'd been sleeping and that first breath of air he'd taken on another coast was his first taste of a new life.

A part of him should've seen through it, should have recognized it, but he remained, and still remains, blissfully unaware.

But he likes Princeton and, for some reason, his memory of Seattle isn't something he looks back on fondly. New Jersey is what he would call an underappreciated, overpopulated little plot of land. People had a sense of urgency everywhere they went and he walked to the beat of that steadfast drum every day. It's a place he finds himself blending into more and more with each year he spends living in it, becoming a part of it, and thriving off of the boundless energy of the state. But even with the lovely existence he's carved out for himself in the town, with the window shops and cafes he writes at and the gorgeous, sprawling university campus he passes through on a daily basis, he supposes he's always felt a little lost no matter how much he adores where he lives. No matter how far he goes or who he's with; there's always something missing.

And sometimes, in the dead of night, he finds himself reaching for something that won't be there. He doesn't sleep very soundly in  
general, but on those nights he doesn't sleep at all and instead lies awake for hours, trying to chase the feeling that had stirred in him upon finding the side of the bed he always leaves space for vacant of warmth.

When morning comes, it's always gone.

Something was missing, a piece of him felt cold and empty and always has, it's only figuring out what that thing is that has proven to be a problem no matter how hard he tries.

The summer air is warm on her face and her cheeks are slightly flushed red from the heat, hair bouncing with every step through a street more crowded than every one in her town combined.

Mike had called her a few days ago about a promise she made when she was a girl and when she asked him who he'd called, who he had yet to call, she asked if she could find the last person and get him to come back to the place where it all began. It only felt right. To go to him and do this in person, to see him again without an audience of six. But it meant that she had to do it immediately. No preparing for it or bracing herself; only ripping open the stitches and letting it burn.

Y/N walks, hands in her coat pockets, into the bookstore and keeps her head down. She doesn't know where exactly in the store he'll be but...

It wasn't like it would have been impossible to find him for all this time. She asked Mike first and he gave her his number, a piece of paper she'd been folding and unfolding all day yesterday debating whether or not to do it over the phone instead. But then a voice in the back of her head told her otherwise.

You see, Y/N hasn't seen Bill in eleven years and her memory of him, while still there, is fading every day she spends apart from him. There's only one thing keeping the memory of him alive in her mind and even then, it has begun to dwindle into less and less no matter how powerful of feelings are attached to them. She finds herself questioning what he looked like the last time she got a good glance at him, what he'd actually said to her the last time they spoken before...it's just that she can't seem to understand why she's here. Mike gladly would have handled telling him, was going to until she offered, and their days together were long gone so what was fueling this? What had her driving a forty minutes from work to go see him when it could have been avoidable?

The bookstore is bustling with activity. People flood the shelves, either an avid reader looking for one of his novels or someone who could care less searching for an entirely different kind of book, but it's crowded.

It would never have been impossible to find him again, she just didn't  _want_  to find him. All it took was a quick search to see that there was going to be a book signing at a store in Princeton and that would be the easiest place to find him, short of calling him up and defeating the purpose of why she's the one telling him.

Mike had called the rest of the Losers, that much she knew, and saved her and Bill for last.

It's a lovely little store, although, as a reader herself, she's biased toward bookstores. It's a bit hard to see because she opted for wearing a pair of sunglasses to hide her eyes until she knew where he was and that he wouldn't find her first, but she can see enough to tell that this is definitely somewhere he would, at least when she knew him, spend all of his time writing at. There's a slight hesitation in her at that thought and she can remember laying beside him in bed while he typed or on those bad days when he couldn't get anything down, the way he'd rest his head in her lap as if simply being near her helped dull the bitter ache of not being able to write.

"Not now," She mutters at herself, at the memory threatening to send her into a fit of panic and stuffs her glasses into her empty coat pocket.

It freshened her image of what he looked like in her head; eyes that could strike her down with their beauty in her spot, a head of auburn hair she can remember running a hand through as if it were yesterday, the way he moved-Y/N's face pales.

Bill Denbrough, at forty years old, still could give her heart palpitations like the last time she'd seen him-though, once again, she's completely biased.

He's sitting at a table far enough away for her to feel steady where she's standing, but still shocked enough to slump back against the bookshelf behind her. His shoulders are slouched a little and his hair is still the color she remembers it being-albeit a few grey hairs here or there that she can't see from across the room-as it hangs down in front of his face and he leans over to sign his most recent book. He's talking, what it is about she doesn't know, but there's a whisper of what that voice once sounded like in the deepest depths of her mind and it's making her heart beat faster.

She forces herself not to stumble and straightens her jacket out, one hand still plunged into the pocket, while she walks to the back of the line with a copy of his book she snagged off a nearby shelf in hand. It must be really new if she hadn't caved and bought it from her nearby bookstore yet. There's a box of his books buried beneath piles of clothes in her closet, the early ones being a few of the first copies to exist since he always had her read it through before he published them, and she supposes this one will be one of the many new additions to that box.  _Joanna_ , weathered with age seeing as it was his first book, is in her bedside table with the book jacket removed though.

The line shortens, then shortens some more, and every step closer to him, she feels herself get smaller and smaller.

Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe Mike should've been the one-

"Really? T-T-Thanks," A pause it takes for him to recall the name he wrote on the inside cover, "Thomas, it means a lot."

Everything stops inside of her at his voice, everything, she can't help but freeze up now that she's getting much closer to speaking with him again-

Y/N leaves the line and bolts from the store in the time it takes for the person two paces in front of her to walk towards the table he's situated at.

 _I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't_ -It's a loop in her head as she runs down the crowded town street, weaving through the clumps of people here or there, to get to somewhere else, a place far enough from where he is that feels safe enough to breathe.

Her hands tremble, her back pressed up against a brick wall around the corner from the street the book store is on, when she dials a number into her phone and tries not to let the panic overtake her completely. It was going to be too much, seeing him again and having to talk to him; she can't do it alone like she thought. If she had the Losers to hide behind...the call picks up.

There's a change in the air around her when Mike greets her on the other end of the line.

"Hey," She breathes out, still shaking, "I need you to do something for me, I thought I could handle it but I-I can't and I think he needs to hear it from you instead."

He's quiet for a moment and that silence runs along her bones and threatens to send her running back into that store until he opens his mouth to speak.

"You want me to tell him?"

"Please."

The last time she spoke to Bill was over the phone, she realizes, and before they hung up he said that he loved her. That was the last thing he'd said and she didn't say it back.

Sweat clings to her skin beneath the layers of her coat and sweater beneath it and she begins to wonder why she didn't take the damn thing off a half hour ago, when she parked a couple streets away and proceeded to stroll into the bookstore as if she were merely a fan of his works wanting to get a signed copy. This is when it occurs to her there's a weight in her left arm and she looks down at the book that is squished between her forearm and chest that she forgot to put back on the shelf before running from that place faster than she'd ever moved before.

She adds, "Wait an hour or so," and at the confusion she can tell he's in, she adds on, "He's doing a book signing and I wanted to talk to him there, but," a heavy sigh, "I couldn't do it. He'll probably be done in an hour."

They talk for a minute longer and she tries her hardest to keep her voice from wavering with every word, shaking hand holding the phone to her ear until he tells her he has to get back to work and they hang up.

And she's left, stolen book under her arm, standing against the building with tears in her eyes.

Why hadn't she said it back?

-

Warner Denbrough doesn't remember his father.

It wasn't like he knew the difference, not after growing up with a single mom and only experiencing the maternal side parenting has to offer. But it did jar him when he realized for the first time, as a little boy, that other kids had dads.

At thirteen years old, he's reaching a time of curiosity.

Life with his mom is  _enough_  for him. It's enough love and care to last a lifetime with one parent by his side. She's always looking out for him, for his best interest, even when she messes up. But at thirteen years old, he's beginning to step into who he'll become, who he is, and finding out who his dad is feels like the next step to take. Only he has no clue where to look first.

The walk home from school wasn't long. A quarter of a mile trek from the double doors on the east entrance of his middle school had him at their doorstep, kneeling down from where he stood, a few inches tall for his age, to swipe the spare key from under the doormat and unlock the front door.

For most of the afternoon, he did nothing other than crash on the couch watching a movie on the TV. Today was the last day of school and that, for a kid like Warner who was picked on every day of his life, meant freedom.

A few hours of doing absolutely nothing under his belt, he lays back on the couch with a heavy sigh, prodding at one of the delicate stitches in the leather absentmindedly while he debates the reasons his mom isn't home yet despite her shift ending nearly two hours ago. She had a short day today and she never misses out on time with him, always had made it a point to put him before anything else in her life, including work. So it's out of character for her to be late and that worry is like an infestation in the pits of his mind, gnawing at him with the paranoia of what might have happened to her. His overactive imagination tended to do a lot more harm than good.

He sits up with a huff.

Philadelphia wasn't the safest place in the world, not by any measure. It happened to be one of the most dangerous cities in the country despite his somewhat pleasant experiences in going spending a few years of elementary school there and visiting on days his mom worked and couldn't afford to leave him by himself. Most of the time, he tries to reassure himself on the rare occasion she is late. She's navigated the city every day of her life for who knows how long and is smart enough to stick to the safer streets when alone. If anyone could handle themselves in one of America's more dangerous cities; it would be her. Y/N was alert when he didn't know to be, she pays attention where he, without the trauma or life experience to know, doesn't know how to. She was always on the defense, as if waiting for someone, or some _thing_ , to pounce.

When the lock on the door begins to jiggle, his head whips up from where he'd been resting it in his hands.

Based on the look on her face, he instantly knows it was a bad day for the both of them, but he doesn't let that show in the smile he flashes her way and instead stands up to pull her into a hug.

"How was school?" She asks, slipping off her shoes at the door.

It hadn't been easy.

It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been or as it had been before, but he often wonders why it is that some kids feel the need to be so nasty to him. It's something about power and control, he knows that, but it wasn't like he was a bad person for being different. It didn't make sense to him to treat someone with little to no respect because of a birthmark and a stutter.

"H-How it always is, what about you, why do you look so t-t-tired?"

The stutter has always been bad. It's been harder for him now more than ever to cope with feeling like everyone is looking at him funny whenever he opens his mouth, but growing up with her helped. She knew what to do when he stumbled on words and never interrupted him, didn't pressure him when he couldn't talk. That compassion, the way she somehow knew exactly how to work with him on it and took it in stride, surprises him every day. To his knowledge, no one in his family stutters. His grandparents, who he's only met a handful of times, don't stutter, his mom doesn't either.

A part of him always wondered...but he pushes that away and shakes his head.

Then there's his birthmark.

It takes up the space underneath his right eye, on his cheekbone stretching down to just at the apple of his cheek. It's gotten darker as he's grown and it grows with him, in proportion to him. There wasn't anything medically "wrong" about it and he's a healthy kid, but mentally it hurts him every day.

He wishes it didn't.

He wishes the lies he feeds his mom about embracing the way he looks and accepting himself were true, but it's far from it. It makes him a target for mean kids who have nothing better to do other than harass him to feel better about the problems in their lives and he thinks that is bullshit. He doesn't accept that. He doesn't embrace it, he thinks it's  _bullshit_. To love something about himself that makes the people at school call him ugly, that make him an outcast for having a birthmark. It doesn't make sense to him. To embrace the stutter that makes speaking, something that comes so naturally to the kids around him, feel like a daunting task and simply having his face looked at feel like standing naked in the middle of a crowded room.

She sets her purse and a book that looks about as thick as two of his school textbooks, down on the kitchen counter. Literature never piqued his interest, which is ironic when he considers the collection his mother has that could put a public library to shame. (As well as it is ironic if one were to consider his father). So he isn't too interested in whatever it is she brought home to say the least and focus in on something else that had snagged his attention.

He follows her movements as she seems to fumble for something to say. His eyes narrow; Warner doesn't miss a thing.

"Uhhhh, I-" She starts to unbutton her coat to at least have something to do with her hands while she lies, "I had more work to do than I thought and they needed an extra set of hands. And then on the way home, I stopped at a bookstore."

It wasn't a complete lie. She did stop at a bookstore, just not one anywhere near Philly or even in Pennsylvania at all.

He looks away, half-convinced, "Oh, well I'm r-r-really hungry and there's no food in the house, but you're here now so I guess its o-okay."

Her smile sets him at ease a little and helps mend the damage worrying so much about whether or not something happened to her on the walk to her car from work had done. But he still keeps an eye out, still keeps an eye on her because she isn't acting normal and there's been this heaviness to her that wasn't there when he'd seen her last.

Y/N quiets for a moment.

It's a moment filled with questions swirling in the back of her mind, fresh off seeing Bill for the first time in eleven years she isn't sure how to function properly. Even breathing feels like a challenge.

She slips the piece of paper with his number on it into the inside cover of the stolen book.

"An old friend of mine called me yesterday and I found out someone I was close to a while ago died," She says and leans down against the counter on her elbows, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "I have to go to the funeral up in Derry and I'll be gone for a week..."

Lying to him, about this, isn't something she will feel guilty about. If it means protecting him from It, she would do anything. She and Bill had a conversation a long time ago about what they would do if It came back and what that would mean for Warner. She agreed with him then and she agrees with him now; he can never know. If she has to lie to him, keep him with her parents, anything she has to do she'll do it if it means he's safe. It could take anything, but not him. It would have to get through her first.

His face softens at the confession. That was why she seemed so different when she walked in. But he doesn't know much about her life before having him. It never seemed to alarm him that his mother kept so many secrets because, after all, he didn't have much to compare it to. There were never any stories about her childhood outside of living in Maine and a few stories about a best friend she had. About a couple of friends she had when she was a teenager. He can recall them if he tries, those tales she told him if he begged her for long enough.

They were cuddled up in blankets and knitted sweaters in the most brutal point of a storm that had left them snowed in for three days straight when she told him about that friend. A fire was blazing in the hearth on the wall in front of them and it filled the room with a warmth that sank down to his very bones. He felt safe with her and, as a seven-year-old, he tended to cling to his mother's side like glue.

It wasn't much, but it was more than she'd ever given him before. About a time when one of her friends, the name of which he can't exactly remember, punched a bully in the face for her. Snow was falling into the night outside of their windows as she spoke, the faint smell of tea on her breath falling into the space around them the whole time.

She was talking so softly, "I had been going to that school for about half a year when this happened. We were walking home from the movies one day and this older kid, who liked to pick on us all the time, started following me. I usually tried to ignore bullies, but it was getting hard to and he kept teasing me and invaded my personal space."

A lot smaller and a lot less mature than he is now, his eyes widened and he asked, "W-What'd you d-d-do?"

"I couldn't do anything. The kid grabbed my ponytail and yanked real hard, tried to hurt me. I was so distracted by what the bully was saying to me that I almost forgot my friend was there. So when that jerk put his hands on me, he was there and punched him in the nose so hard it bled."

And to a little kid who for bullied every day at school, hearing about her friend felt like listening to a story about a brave knight or warrior. It made him wish he were strong enough to defend himself from his bullies. Unconsciously, Warner began fighting back after she told him that.

Now, he stands taller and his voice is a bit deeper and the head of brown hair she'd been running a comforting hand through is much darker as he speaks, "S-S-S-So I'm gonna be alone for a week?"

"No," She shakes her head, "I wouldn't leave you by yourself for that long," A pause and she looks across the counter at him, "Grandma and Grandpa are going to come soon to watch you. You'll only be alone for three days, not a week."

Being a single mother wasn't easy. Some years were harder than others and on the worst year, she called her parents. They only visited five times total, which wasn't much compared to most families but to her felt like more than she ever intended on, and this will make it six.

His arms are crossed over his chest, one hand picking at a thread on the sleeve of his shirt while the other clutches his elbow with white knuckles. There was something about his grandparents that he couldn't put his finger on. Something he didn't quite like about them that made his stomach churn every time he had to see them. Grandpa wasn't bad, he genuinely tries when he has to spend time with him and he is never mean to him. Grandma was...she was a character, every time he saw her he felt like she was looking down her nose at him. But her friend died and he's sure a week of his grandparents is nothing compared to grieving a loss that monumental. And despite it all, there was still a piece of her that loved the woman. No matter how unsteady their relationship has been. She loves her cautiously.

Warner bites the inside of his cheek.

Maybe she'd want him to come with her. If she's upset she might want someone familiar and he knows she doesn't like being away from him for that long anyway.

She's turning to walk from the kitchen when he opens his mouth.

"M-M-Maybe I should go with you..."

Her heart stops.

Warner? In Derry?

The mere thought of it makes her start to shake her head. It hits her so quickly and the memory of that voice fills every corner of her mind. His voice was shaking, " _We h-h-have to keep him s-safe. He's ours; if It takes another person I luh-love from my life I s-s-s-swear-_ "

"No," Y/N says, the word coming out harder than she'd meant to say it.

_No._

It was cold and stern and angry, all directed at the wrong person. But she meant it in every sense of the word;  _no, you can't go, no, you won't be the next one to die._

She's walking away before he gets the chance to ask her why.

-

Y/N ended up on the way to Maine first thing in the morning.

It was a strangely cold morning for mid-July, but she was nearly shivering when she dragged her suitcase out to her car and started driving. It was weird to leave Warner so suddenly, not being given enough time to prepare for how being so far from him would make her feel, but she made herself press down on the gas and not look back, knowing that there was now food in the house and he'd be capable of surviving a few days alone.

The closer she got to Derry though, the worse that fear in the pit of her stomach took hold of her.

Eleven years. It's been eleven years since she's seen all of the Losers. It's hard to remember what they'd said the last time she'd seen them. The only person who's last words she recalled were his and even then, it only happened when she found him again.

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, that image of him in her mind so vivid compared to the other faded ones.

Seeing him again felt  _right_. Him and her in the same room again, so close even if he didn't notice, didn't remember; it felt like how it did when she was thirteen and saw Silver rolling down the street to her, like how it felt the one time she, him, and Bev shared a cigarette at the Barrens when they were kids and his fingers brushed her's as they passed it back and forth, their eyes meeting in a way that made both of them get goosebumps. She didn't want to admit that it stirred up a feeling in her that had never left in the first place.

Though now, as she's driving through the streets of Derry in the darkness of the evening, it's more nervousness than anything that courses through her.

No matter how much time passes, Derry always feels the same when she comes back. She only ever came back a few times-twice during college and that one time with Bill when their son was a newborn, but the nostalgia never truly goes away. With every turn and twist she takes down every road, she finds herself remembering the tiniest slices of her adolescence like breadcrumbs she'd once left as a trail to follow.

Mike Hanlon's house stands proudly on a decently sized plot of land on Palmer lane.

Some younger, sweeter part of her heart swells with admiration at the sight of it, her car coming to a stop on the street-side behind a few others. They used to hang out here and Mr. Hanlon would let them have a bonfire in the large yard out back where they would lay on blankets and roast marshmallows while Richie would do just about anything to get a couple of good laughs from his friends. Besides Mike, she was Mr. Chips' favorite and he always tried to wedge between where she and Bill sat beside each other (which frustrated young, head over heels, lovestruck Bill to no end). In the back of her mind, she wonders how he ended up back here, how the rest of the Losers ended up separating after she and Bill were the first to move out of the house they'd shared.

Y/N keeps her hands in her pockets on the walk through the yard, up the old front steps, and onto the wraparound porch that leads to the front door of the Hanlon house. There are a few chairs here or there along the length of the porch as far as she can see before it's dissolved into the darkness of night, a small table set before one of them in particular and she can picture Mike sitting there every morning with a cup of coffee and a book.

The front door is opened and the screen door before it is unlocked and a gentle press of her hand on the weathered mesh has it creaking out into the hallway in front of her, but the voices and music inside are too loud for her entrance to be heard. It doesn't surprise her that she's likely to be the last one to arrive. the distance from her house to Derry was too short for her to justify buying a plane ticket and too long for a drive, but she had no other choice. Eight hours later, here she stands on unsteady legs in the threshold of one her closest friend's house.

Cream colored walls adorned with pictures and paintings pass in her peripheral vision, but she isn't focused on them. Isn't even provoked to look at them as she usually would because of the familiar sounds of the Losers somewhere beyond the front hallway that makes something inside of her break.

Almost all of the Losers have been hanging out inside the living room for the last hour, catching up and waiting for her, for Stan. The first to arrive was Richie, around the time the sun was starting to sink below the horizon, then Eddie, then Ben, then Bev, and, most recently, Bill. It took a good half hour of talking before any of them felt comfortable again, a strange experience for people who'd once been family.

She peeks in through the doorframe leading to the living room but isn't prepared for what's inside.

"I'm fucking telling you, she's probably off somewhere in France fighting off corrupt agents. My bet's that she's a spy for the French government," Richie Tozier's voice rings out in the surrounding room, pulling out all the stops for his best French accent on the last two words.

But her eyes are locked on someone sitting at the end of the couch.

Eddie, having none of it, scoffs and says, "That's so moronic, she's probably still a veterinarian. Don't you remember?"

There's a silence, soft and heavy, in the air at the last word. _Remember_. They did not, in fact, remember it. Not a single one of them outside of Eddie and Mike.

It makes Bill stop and think though. It makes him recall a time when he was waiting for her to be done with work and she walked out to the car. She'd leaned over the center console to kiss him.

He shakes his head. It's all too confusing.

Most of them are sat on the couch pushed back against the wall opposite to where the TV sits on a coffee table she suddenly remembers doing her Biology homework on once and the others are standing.

Her heart leaps at the sight of him.

"I am still a veterinarian actually," Y/N finally speaks, the sound of her footstep as she moves from the hallway into the living room echoing into every corner of Bill's soul, "Not a French spy, sorry if that disappoints you, Trashmouth."

Beverly shouting her name in surprise is so loud that she has half a mind to cringe, but is distracted by her body being engulfed into a hug in the half second it took her to hurry across the room to her; the scent of something sweet that clings to the woman's clothes perfuming the space around them as she shuts her eyes and smiles into her shoulder.

The embrace only lasts seconds, as to give Mike, who was already standing closest to the door, a chance to hug her too. They'd always been so close.

She says, pulling away to see his face, "The house looks exactly the same as it did the last time I saw it, I thought someone sent me back in time."

His smile makes her feel warm.

"Yeah, nothing here in Derry has changed much besides the Hospital," And at the confused look on her face, he amends, "Turned into a college. Then they put up a new one after that."

Ben is next and he hugs her tightly and tells her how much he missed talking to her about books and poetry, among other things they used to get lost in.

It's when they separate though, that the realization hits her and she registers the rest of the room outside the first two people who stood up to greet her.

Eddie and Richie are talking, most likely about her and how she's changed, on the couch while Ben sits, already back from hugging her, on Eddie's right side, his eyes alight with joy at the sight of yet another Loser walking into the living room of Mike's house. It's the last person though that catches her immediate attention, her breath catching in her throat at the eyes that had been fixed on her the moment the first syllable fell from her lips.

At least she'd had that first glimpse in the bookstore to prepare her, to feel the initial hurt of it like a blow to the gut, he didn't have a chance to gather himself.

Bill blinked and there she was.

It took that call and coming back here for him to remember her at all and so seeing her again? It doesn't surprise him that it evokes much worse feelings of heartbreak.

Bill lived the last eleven years of his life forgetting that he'd ever known her and the Losers. And for the last hour, right now especially, he's wondering how the hell he let himself forget let such wonderful people. But, regarding her, he remembers bits and pieces. Their childhood, the time they lived in Derry, is most of what he remembered after the phone call and a cab ride through their hometown that had him suddenly recalling things he'd never thought happened before. They passed by the Aladdin theater and as the cab driver was talking away, memories of all of them watching a movie together in tenth grade came to mind and he had to lean his head back on the seat and shut his eyes at the flash of a memory of the girl who'd been sitting beside him in that theater. The armrest between their two seats was pushed up and as he recalled it, a feeling he couldn't place flooding him in the back of the cab, he could almost feel the warmth of where her hand had been holding his those twenty-five years ago. He's been absentmindedly rubbing at his left palm all night.

It wasn't just that memory either, there were other things swirling in that head of his, things that have left him silent and distant when nobody was speaking to him, but right now his head clears for only a moment and all he can think about is the woman standing three feet from his spot on the couch.

His blue eyes are shining when she meets his stare, the conversation in the rest of the room picking back up while they debate what comes next. She isn't sure what to say. While she's been missing him for the last decade, he hadn't had a clue of her existence, let alone their son's.

Eddie saves her the trouble of having to talk to him now though and stands up to say hello now that he has the chance to, meaning now that Beverly isn't crushing her in a hug and Mike is done greeting and embracing her too.

"My eyes must be deceiving me and you must not really be here, Eddie Kaspbrak."

But he is and he shrugs, his smile brighter than it was before she walked in. They always had a soft spot for one another.

"I'm surprised  _you're_  here. You know, if you're actually the spy Richie says you are you should be in France instead," He says and the sound of her friend's voice makes her want to cry with happiness.

The Losers were what she'd been unfortunate enough to not completely remember. Unlike the rest of them, she never did  _fully_  forget but rather had a veil put over those memories until they felt far away and murky. Until they were a whisper she could only hear if she tugged on the thread that connected them together and one of their conversations would appear in her head. But she never completely lost them. She'd had too many reminders. The scar on her abdomen, all of the pictures she'd taken with her, and Warner...he was the reason she couldn't forget Bill. Every time she looked him in the eyes, his  _father's_  eyes, there was a flash of recognition in her and so every day she was constantly reminded of the man who had no idea of who she was. And every night she felt the absence of him beside her like a void that would only grow colder and colder with each passing day, her hand flat on the space that he used to take up not knowing that somewhere he was unknowingly doing the same.

"Where've you been all this time? Had I known I'd forgotten such a hottie, I would've gone looking for you," Richie says with a grin.

He must have stood when she was looking at Bill...Nevertheless, she chuckles and looks up at him.

"And I return the sentiment complet-" Y/N halts, "Jesus Christ, where'd your glasses go?"

Where he'd previously sported a pair of glasses (with lenses so thick they magnified his eyes so much it took a while for her to realize he wasn't always surprised or wide-eyed yet it was just the glasses) there is now nothing.

The Trashmouth bats his eyelashes at her and says, "Contacts, my dahling Y/N. I stopped wearing those things like nine years ago when I got my radio job."

They all end up getting to talking about their recent lives, the catching up that she'd missed while driving here was mostly small talk about work or their relationships. Learning that Richie lived in Beverly Hills as a radio DJ was quite the shock at first, but as he got to explaining it and she saw the passion in his eyes when he talked about what he did for a living it was a no-brainer. He loved doing voices growing up and no matter how awful they were at the time, when they all inevitably sounded like Richie Tozier more than the person he imitated, she always found herself throwing her head back with laughter. The others found him funny, but she genuinely laughed when they were younger and the memory of that lovely sound is sounding off in his head before he can register it.

Then there's Beverly, who's a fashion designer in Chicago, which didn't really surprise her at all. It was fitting to think of her in that city, though she's never personally gone there, and living in her own world doing what she loves to her heart's content. It was surprising to hear that she's single. Bev had always caught the attention of the people around her whether they were good or bad and someone as beautiful as her; with the shock of her red hair falling down her shoulders and green eyes like emeralds glittering in the sunlight, she figured someone would've had their eye on the woman.

The rest of the Losers hesitate though, unlike Bev and Richie, who vaguely remember her calling them "the evil twins" for the antics they would drag her into, because as the catching up lulls they all recall why they came back. Why Mike made seven phone calls two days ago and the promise of a lifetime that had them all crawling back to Derry as quickly as they could.

"W-W-Why isn't S-Stan here?" Bill asks, the first thing that's come out of his mouth since she walked in, and she realizes he's been standing behind her this whole time. Waiting for the rest of them to be done, she realizes.

His voice makes her jaw tighten.

 _Why_   _ **isn't**  Stan here_, she wonders, it only now occurring to her that there's one less person in the room than there should be.

Stanley is a person who was always on the side of being more remembered than forgotten in her head. For some of them, her memory was worse but she remembered Bill the most and after that, came Stan. He and Richie were always attached at the hip as kids and he also heavily favored being with Mike as they grew up, but she had a strange relationship with the man.  _(Stan the Man!_  somewhere deep inside of her shouts in the way one only does when something has been on the tip of their tongue for hours,  _Richie always called him Stan the Man Uris!)_  He was who she went to for advice because he was logical and level-headed and when she needed to stop letting her emotions rule her, she went to him to tell her what he thought. To tell her the truth, plain and simple, while also retaining the empathy only a best friend could. He was sweet and funny as well, such a lovely soul.

Everyone turns to Mike and he tenses at all of the eyes on him. He told the Losers that he'd kept tabs on them this whole time and after moving back to Derry after his father passed five years ago, he's made sure to keep their phone numbers on speed dial for when strange things might begin happening again.

"He's-You might want to sit down for this," He warns and the whole room tenses.

Instantly, her mind is in the worst case scenario.

That alone is enough to make her feel even more unsteady.  _No-No, he couldn't be_...She jumped to a conclusion, Stan is alive, she's only paranoid and-

"Stan killed himself."

Richie, who'd been avoiding asking that question that might lead to an answer he didn't want to hear, flinches. He figured the answer would have been that he didn't want to come back or that he refused to, but this...He has to hold onto her for support so his knees won't give out on him.

It wasn't something she ever expected to see, but his eyes are watering and he's squeezing her wrist so hard she fears it might snap in his grip. They were always so close for as much as she can remember of their interactions around her. Stan and Richie, almost as close as Richie and Bill, but in a different way. A closer way that had Stan always pretending to hate his jokes when, in reality, he was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt and Richie pretended to not notice those smiles to feign offense.

She lied to Warner and said one of her friends died, but to learn that that wasn't a lie...

Everyone is quiet, suddenly realizing that this was everyone and they were only waiting for her. That they've been laughing and talking this whole time while he...he was dead, has been dead for two days.

Y/N's mind goes blank and for a few moments, as Mike explains what had happened and as Bev asks him questions, she can only stand with her hand in Richie's and fight the way her lower lip begins to wobble like it always does before she starts to cry. His wife found him in the bathtub...she tries to shove it all away, wishing she could forget about him so she wouldn't have to deal with the pain and grief of knowing her friend was dead, but if it didn't work the first time why would it work now? Especially since they're all together again and there's a reminder of him in all of the seven people standing around her.

For a while, she stays there and doesn't say a word. Almost as silent as Bill has been since she walked in, but she's thinking, plotting. It would pay for his death. Because she doesn't know how, but it did this. If it hadn't traumatized him to the point where death seemed like a better option than returning to face the monster that haunted him, none of it would have happened and none of them would have forgotten, Stan wouldn't be dead. So she'll make it pay.

She will have her vengeance.

"Who did It kill?"

The Losers stop talking.

"What?" Mike asks, but they all know.

Before she lets go of his hand, she looks their Trashmouth in the eye as if to ask him if he's okay, if she can let go and he'd be alright. He gives her a sad smile and she drops his hand, turning her gaze to Mike.

"If we're here, that means it's happening again, right? Who did it get?" She asks again.

As if snapped back into reality, back into what their purpose in coming back actually is outside of who has been where and who's been doing what for the last eleven years, all of them take the smallest step closer and listen harder, curious despite their senses that urge them to get the hell out of this cursed town.

As he turns and walks across the room, to the stand beside the couch, rifling through a small drawer; she keeps one hand shoved deep into the pocket of her slacks. In  _his_ hands are a few newspapers and a small stack of photographs.

"It started a few months ago, but I wanted to be sure it was what I thought it was," A picture held up in front of his chest reveals a brutalized victim, "It started with Adrian Mellon. He was leaving the town fair with his boyfriend and was thrown off the bridge, nobody mentioned It, but the body and the attack...it's familiar..."

The picture is passed around from one person to the next and Ben doesn't even look when he passes it his way, can't even stand to hold it let alone look at the body. Mike explains as they pass it that he has a friend in the Derry police department that got him a chance to get his hands on these pictures and confidential case information, though she's sure the man could do anything, get his hands on any information, if he's motivated enough. That's just who Mike is and, outside of the racists of this town, he has the smile and kindness that could get you anything from anyone. Charming, sweet, handsome; that's just Mike.

Her hands shake when she looks at the photograph, at his cracked ribs and the blood, so much blood, that soaked through his clothing so heavily that you could see the wounds beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His arm had been ripped off. It hadn't really hit her that it was happening again.  _Truly_  happening, what they'd gone through as kids, other children might be dealing with and it makes her lip wobble again-

Then there's the warmth and pressure of someone's hand on her's, a fairly larger hand, gently taking the photo from her. There's another hand on the small of her back for only a fraction of a second before they both jerk away at the touch, as if he remembered that that habit wasn't his to do anymore and that she might not be okay with him touching her. He hadn't meant to move forward when he saw her shoulders trembling and heard the first soft, terrible sound of her beginning to cry, he just did it. It was his body lurching forward on its own accord at the sound of her distress, a life-long habit he'd forgotten snapping back into place.

Y/N whips her head around and meets Bill's gaze, all signs of her previous sadness gone and replaced with surprise.

"I-" He shakes his head, "S-S-Sorry."

But she presses her lips together in a firm line, unsure of what exactly to do. So she ignores it, mumbles a soft, "It's fine," and turns away from him. Walks a step closer towards the rest of their friends to distract herself.

He touched her, he touched her, he-

"Then it started happening to younger people, kids, and after more and more went missing, I knew I couldn't deny it any longer and I called you guys," Mike sighs and then looks up at them, his features hardened with the stress and grief of having to remember.

And it occurs to her that they were the only ones who remembered all along. Because he lived in Derry again, was forced to pass by reminders of it every day, and because she had Warner. That alone makes her want to hug him again, because only she understands his pain of having to remember the Losers and never reach out, having to remember the trauma when the others forgot.

He's looking at her when he speaks again.

"We made a promise and we can't let It take anyone else," A look of pure desperation behind those eyes, "We  _promised_."

Y/N doesn't miss a beat and steps forward. She takes his hand in her's, looking him in the eye still.

"We won't break it."

Nobody else seems inclined to disagree with her.

And one by one they all step in closer, so close they're almost all touching and her heart feels a little less empty in the presence of what used to be-what will  _always_  be-her family.

The night continues on in a different fashion than it had begun.

Everyone is still catching up with one another and talking and trying not to let everything they learned ruin their reunion, but there's something else that lingers around them. An eighth presence that clings the air desperately and makes all of them feel a little bit put-off.

She's been sitting with Ben and Eddie, telling them almost everything that's been happening with her (excluding the massive detail that is her and Bill's son) for the last hour now. The energy in the room decreased from when they'd broken down and finally began talking about It and the murders that have been happening in Derry for months now. It transformed into something akin to what it was like to sit in a room with them when they were teenagers eager to talk about anything on their minds since eleven years apart provide a lot of conversation between seven people. (Well, it would actually be six. For her, six people because she and Bill only exchanged those four brief words before avoiding one another like the plague).

Ben is an architect. It wasn't surprising to hear since the last time she saw him he'd recently finished his schooling and was looking for a job, but it still made her smile and tell him how proud it made her to hear of his success.

She was more shocked to learn that Eddie is a limo driver for celebrities in New York. He's lived in Queens for the last seven years. It stung a bit to know he was a two-hour train ride away from her this entire time and she had no idea. She could have visited Eddie on weekends and instead she hadn't had a clue of where any of them were, let alone planned a visit.

"I'll be back, I'm gonna get some water," She says to the two of them and stands up.

The kitchen is only a walk outside the entrance to the living room and to the right, a doorway at the very end of that hallway she came in through.

Her steps are heavy, the soles of her shoes a bit louder than usual on the tiled floor, on her walk to the refrigerator.

It feels strange to be back with everyone. Good, but strange. But it was even stranger that none of them asked-about Warner, about how old he was, or how he's been doing.  _They do remember him, right?_  While her hand grabs a water bottle that was sitting on the shelf on the fridge door, the realization hits her. That  _Bill_  might not even-

A floorboard creaking loudly from the hallway halts that thought and she turns quickly, always on alert, to see who, or what, it is.

It was as if she'd somehow summoned him.

A part of her wants to run, wants to keep her mouth shut, close the fridge, and move around him as if he weren't even there. But then there's the other part, the one that remembers him and feels that gravitational tug to where he now stands just inside the kitchen.

Bill, surprisingly, didn't mean to follow her.

He was talking to Richie and Beverly and she asked if he could get her a drink, which led him here and there she was. He doesn't remember Warner, but he started to remember who she was the moment Mike called him. It isn't fully there yet. Actually, there's not much there at all, but he remembers the big things. The basic, barest remnants of his memory from before that leaves him with the conclusion; _I loved her, she loved me._  The rest? He isn't sure what their relationship was or how long it lasted, but there was a feeling. Something deeply rooted in him that came back-or maybe had never left-that he could simply feel.

She feels frozen in her place, cold from the open fridge she's practically standing up against, when he's walking up to her and suddenly he's right there. After eleven years, he's right there and she doesn't have anything to say other than-

"Hi."

The word is so meek and small that it makes her want to hide her face in her hands. She's practically scolding herself like a child for it, _Hi? Eleven years without the man you love and all you can manage is "Hi"?_

But he doesn't seem to have anything else to say either and looks her up and down, a look in his eyes that she can't quite place, then says, "Hi."

For the first time in the night, Y/N looks at him, really looks at him, and finds it hard to make herself look away.

It's insane how much Warner looks like him. He obviously looks very similar to her too, but if someone knew the both of them as she did, they would know who his dad was. He has her lips, her smile. Then he has Bill's eyes and his nose, his laugh too. Didn't get any red hair though. All of it's a dark, lovely chestnut brown color with only the slightest undertones of his dad's auburn peeking through here or there through every loose curl sprouting from his head.

She swallows back the lump in her throat and gives her best attempt at a polite smile despite everything inside of her that's shouting at her to either leave or get closer. She does neither.

"Sorry I didn't get to talk to you earlier, everyone just kind of kept me busy and then, you know, when we talked about..."

There's a jolt of adrenaline that runs through him as soon as she starts talking, now that she's looking up at him instead of averting her gaze as she did earlier and he, keeping a damper on that rush of thrilling excitement, nods.

"It's fine."

The kitchen is empty besides the two of them standing there, not sure of what to do or say and both them forgetting how to stand or move in the wake of one another. For him, it's almost worse. Being the one out of the know, even if he doesn't know what he's forgotten, it's worse. To not remember the happiness and the love in such vivid detail as her.

Because she couldn't forget it if she tried. And she tried. But then she'd remember the feeling of his hands on her skin or the absolute love in his eyes when he looked at her and she'd fall right back down. It was impossible to escape, no matter how much she tried, no matter how far she ran; it was impossible.

"How've you been?" Y/N blurts out, feeling the need to say something, anything to break the silence.

"Good," A shrug, "I've been...f-fuh-fine, I guess."

"That's great."

Then they're plunging back into that unbearably loud silence that had left her ears ringing only half a minute ago and she can barely stand it; not actually talking to him. Small talk was never their thing, they always got right into the bad stuff, the intimate stuff, but now there was a wall between them that had never been there. They'd always been close, since childhood, and now? Now he's lived his life believing none of that ever happened until these past few days. For crying out loud, he doesn't know he has a child with her and it's killing her to stand here pretending like everything's okay when, in reality, nothing has been okay for the last eleven years. But she had nobody to talk to about it. He was always who she talked to and her friends, who also moved away and forgot who she was, were who she talked to. All she had was Warner. For so long, he was her everything and he could never know about Bill.

But she braves it, tells herself she'll only have to stomach being around him for one small week and then it'll be her and Warner for another five years until he turns eighteen. And then it'll just be her. Then...she'll be alone. Forever.

It couldn't be so bad, could it? Loneliness, as isolated and cold as it could be, is a better alternative to letting herself love someone that much again. Pouring that much of her heart and soul into something...it killed her the first time; when she lost him. She wouldn't let anything hurt her like that again.

Y/N breaks her gaze with him and instead looks down at the water bottle in her hands, picking at the label nervously with her fingernail.

"Uh, Ben and Eddie are probably waiting for me..."

Then she's starting to walk around him. Anything to end this charade of whatever their interactions used to be, a hollow shell of what they once had. She'd be happy to never have to see him again if it meant empty conversations like this one.

She's halfway across the kitchen, still picking at the label on the water bottle, when he stops her. When he grabs her by the arm.

Something in him just couldn't-he moved without thinking again, not able to let her go.

Bill didn't have anything in mind to say and he's struggling for a moment, grasping at anything that comes to mind. Her skin is warm underneath his palm and it makes him want to get closer to her, it's there with every beat of his heart pounding against his chest at her.

The truth is, he remembers some of their childhood. Most of it is related to It and little moments that came back to him while he rode through the town in the back of the cab, but other stuff came back too. They were brief, intense flashes of memory but they were there. Of her and him, together, as adults. She looked younger and was wearing something that made him incredibly  _uncomfortable_ , if that's the word for what it made him feel, while in the presence of the cab driver. Red, thin lace and see-through fabric that didn't leave much of anything to his imagination, and he was on his knees. He was kneeling in front of her and in that tiny glimpse of a memory he could feel it. What tied them together. She was looking down at him like he was everything to her and he was in awe of the woman.  _"I'm thinking about how much I like seeing you on your knees for me."_  That was it. But it was more than that, it was a part of something bigger and more important than himself and he can't figure out what.

Her eyes meet his and it makes something in him feel weak and that small, small part of him from before bends to the will of her stare.

"I've muh-missed you," Bill says.

And like a spark, something that had been long since dead awakens in her and her shoulders drop with a sigh.  _You have no idea_ , a part of her wants to say,  _you have no idea what it's been like to **miss**  someone._ But she understands and the corner of her mouth tilts upwards into a slight-smile; all she can manage.

"Me too."

That spark, small but still there, burning in her chest fighting for a chance to ignite, flares a bit brighter; hope. The smallest kernel of hope that had once, a long time ago, been burnt out.

They don't talk for the rest of the night.

-

Warner, five hundred miles away, is having a crisis.

For most of the first day he was to stay alone at the house while she visited her hometown, he was bored.

Time passed too slowly and there was nothing good on TV. Besides, it wasn't like he could leave the house. If she found out she would have a fit and though he's right around the age where kids do tend to push their parents' boundaries, he isn't in the mood to upset his mother. He never really liked getting into trouble anyway. There wasn't an appeal to being bad to him, despite how strong-willed he can be sometimes.

This though...this is  _different_.

He was in his room for nearly the entirety of the day while his mother was driving along the east coast as quickly as possible. It didn't strike him as odd, that she was so frantic and acting weird after the death of one of her old friends. He was curious about it since she'd only ever told him of that one friend that punched their bully in the face, but he knew he could live with waiting until she came back home next week for answers.

Warner was searching the kitchen for something to eat when something caught his attention.

At first, it was in his peripheral vision and he kept going through what they had in the pantry, telling himself it was stupid and he'd misread it in that passing glance.

But then he was turning back to the counter with what he was going to make himself and he froze.

Yesterday, his mom came home from work with a book in her arms. It was a fairly large book, didn't look like something he'd bother with reading since he wasn't too fond of literature at all, and he distinctly remembered her slipping her bag on top of the front cover; hiding it from his view so smoothly and swiftly that it hadn't occurred to him that she was hiding anything at all. This morning she'd been in such a hurry to go, dragging out her suitcase and swiping her bag off of the counter without thinking about what she'd hidden under it, and left without putting it in the closet.

He's never met another person with the last name Denbrough, not a single one, and yet the name on the front cover of that book was his.

Everything around him felt still and cold as he took a step closer to the side of the counter it was on. The answer to a question he's been asking his whole life was laid out in the open.

His fingertips gently prodded at the paperback; brand new.

"The Black R-Ruh-Rapids," Warner murmured, then took a deep, deep breath before he said it, "...William Denbrough."

The book reeked of that wonderful new book smell, that their house often smelled of due to his mom's habit of collecting books in that massive library of her's in the living room, when he flipped it over to read the back cover where the author's biography was.

His voice was low, "W-W-William "Bill" Denbrough is the number one  _New York Times_  bestselling author of  _The Dark, The Black R-Rapids, The Glowing, Attic Room_ , and his debut novel  _Joanna_ , which he began writing at nineteen. The f-forty-year-old Maine native first began publishing his books in nineteen-ninety-three and now has them distributed in over thirty l-languages."

It had to be a coincidence. It had to be, just because some guy had the same last name as him didn't mean-

He looked back down at the text on the back of the book, squinting to read the small print that he prayed didn't say what he thought it had.

_Forty year old Maine naive._

Just like his mother. His mom grew up in Derry, Maine, that much he knew, and she's the same age as the author. It could've meant nothing, but then again, he'd never met another Denbrough and the chances of that being a coincidence when his own mother brought this into the house had to be small. But he still decided to let it go and wait until she came home to ask-that much he owed her.

Except when he flipped the book back over something fell out of it.

That was when he decided that the universe was trying to tell him something. Especially because the slip of paper read "Bill Denbrough: 202-555-0167" And it hit him. The recollection of that name hit him like a physical blow when he realized that the name of the boy who punched her bully in the face was Bill. That story, the boy's bravery that he envied, might have been...might be...

He immediately stuffed the phone number in the pocket of his pants and left that book sitting on the kitchen counter while he hurried off down the hallway to where their bedrooms are. In his mind, his thoughts were flying a million miles per second and despite that denying, doubtful voice trying to tell him that it could all be a very big coincidence, his gut told him otherwise. What are the chances that his mom had the book and cell number of a man with the last name Denbrough, thirty-nine and raised in Maine just as she was? Not to mention that the name of who she'd told him was her best friend growing up was Bill. It was too close to be a coincidence and finding his number confirmed that.

The door to his mom's bedroom creaked open slowly. He never looked through anyone's things before, but he needed her computer and to look around to see if there was anything else about this Bill Denbrough his mom was contacting.

It didn't take long to find out more about him. After all, he's a bestselling author and quick search of his name got him a lot more than he bargained for. It got him all he needed to push him that last step closer to what he knew he wanted to do. Where he wanted to go.

Derry.

The man was born and raised in Derry, Maine. He's forty, the same age as his mom, and his last name is Denbrough. There was something within him screaming at the top of its lungs. A long forgotten past that, only now, is living to see the light of day.

_My last name is Denbrough._

That was what lead him to this. To packing his backpack full of clothes, taking all of his saved money, and heading to the bus station as the sun sinks below the horizon. Maybe it is an insane coincidence and when he gets there and begins to question her, all she'll do is laugh and proceed to ask him what the hell he's talking about. But something else is calling to him, from Derry, something old and sinister that beckons him there with a siren's call.

And Warner Denbrough is not one to back down, so he finds a comfortable spot on the back of the bus and doesn't let doubt cloud his mind as it pulls away.

To Derry.

-

He's starting to wonder if being in Derry has always felt this way. It's strange, but there's a certain feeling that he can't escape no matter what he does.

Bill lies awake, staring at the chipped wood on the headboard of his bed, unable to avoid the thoughts of her.

Why did he forget? It feels unfair, it feels like he was cheated because for years now he's believed his life to be a very different story. Until he was walking home from that bookstore and his phone began to ring in his pocket. Until he came back here and was swarmed with the sudden onslaught of his life's memories that he hadn't known existed and even then, he's only scratched the surface of them.

Which brings him to Y/N.

His memory of her is faint. What once was a bright, explosive burst of life within him, the spot in his life and heart that he'd given her, has grown cold and dull with time and distance. But he doesn't know what it once was, he can't remember. So all he's left with are scraps of their childhood and a few, barely-there remnants of what they had together later on. He isn't sure what it was or when it happened, how long it lasted. But as he and the rest of the Losers started checking into their hotel rooms for the night, Y/N and Eddie staying in Mike's spare bedrooms halfway across town, he began to feel the void she'd left in him when he forgot. He hasn't fully discovered the magnitude of that void, since he's only remembered the beginning of their relationship, all the way back to where it began the day he first saw her twenty-eight years ago, but even with only stumbling upon the start of it-it aches. More than anything, it aches and he desperately wants to tug on the thread that is his fleeting memory of the woman until it unravels and everything that they experienced together is laid out before him.

It's morning; sunlight breaking into his room through the slight gaps in the blinds he'd groggily shut as soon as he unlocked the door to his room.

His hotel room isn't awful, but it has nothing on his room back home or his childhood bedroom he wishes weren't inhabited by a new homeowner.  _Right_ , he thinks to himself and nuzzles his face further into the pillow,  _that_. The house he'd once lived in as a kid, then as a teenager, and that he vaguely can recall visiting once or twice in the earlier years of his adulthood, wasn't his family's anymore. It hasn't been for a few years now since his folks died...

Nothing about Derry feels right with this strange shift in what his mind can and can't remember. Despite that lurking, overwhelming presence of evil that always encased the town from border to border; it was home in a way. And there was something else, some connection he can't quite put together, that began here that made him more emotionally connected to the place years ago-before he forgot.

Bill groans face first into his pillow and tries to force himself back to sleep, the red tones in his hair brought out intensely by the sun. He's never known himself to be someone to sleep soundly. For the last decade, a pin dropping could rouse him from sleep and have him struggling to relax again, so last night didn't prove to be much different. But he knows he's fully awake now and that any attempts to sleep again will end with him laying idle in bed all morning, so he rubs the sleep from his eyes and gets up.

Y/N, on the other hand, slept deeply.

Perhaps it was the drive up here that had left her exhausted, paired with the stress of what it is they're here for, but it only took a half hour after everyone left Mike's house before he showed her the guest bedroom and she collapsed onto the bed without another word.

In a way, she's envious of him for being able to forget. For eleven years, it's gotten worse and worse. The longer they spent apart, the longer she lived without the Losers and the only love she'd ever own in her life, the worse it got. Truth be told; there's something wicked and broken about her. The person she'd once been long gone, the depths she's plunged to farther and farther within herself the longer the pain continued, the more twisted she became. From who that woman once was, a girl who'd been his safety and had once burned with a fire so scorning to those she hated and bright to the few she loved, has burnt out. There's only a flicker of her remaining, somewhere deep inside her, a spark that had just barely been reignited yesterday night.

"I've missed you," She mouths into the morning air and leans her head to the side against the post of Mike's porch.

A warm summer breeze brushes the hair back from her face and she lets that comforting bit of warmth glide along the skin exposed where her clothes don't cover.

And as she looks out at the street beyond the home, that fractured part of her decides that Derry is one of her least favorite places in the world. It, their monster that was finally poking its head up at them after all this time, would be enough explanation for why this place is the cursed land it is. But it's most likely something else, the other explanation, that drives her hatred.

Everywhere she looks, she sees her old life mocking her. Even standing on this porch, she can remember laughing with her friends while waiting for her mom to pick her up one hot summer night long ago.

The sound is barely audible and the sounds of chirping birds and wind ruffling the treetops keep her voice deaf on all ears besides her own, "I've missed you."

_Powder blue paint coats the fence of the ginormous wraparound porch and the color is stark against her hand as it flattens on the wooden railing at her hips. Her fingers stretch as far she they can, unpainted fingernails so plain and brittle in comparison to the blooming summer around her. She runs her hand along the rail as if she could still feel his hand there._

_Moonlight spilled onto the both of them; illuminating their smiles and giggling laughter to one another._

_They'd spent most of the night together, as they typically did throughout most of college, and ended up standing up on the roof of Ben's dorm building in the middle of the night; talking and kissing for the majority of the time they burned._

_But it got quiet in the early hours of the morning and there was a gap between where they stood that felt unnatural so he slid his hand on top of her's. His skin was warm and his fingers easily encased her's, made her's look tiny by comparison to his larger, but more elegant looking hands. His fingers were long, too long for him to play piano without stumbling over his own movements-which he realized quite young-much to Sharon's disappointment being the wonderful pianist she was. And they were smooth everywhere except for the pads of his fingertips, which were slightly calloused from the brief phase he'd been going through of trying to learn to play the guitar. It was long before their marriage or Warner or anything at that level of adulthood. It was an in-between stage, their getting used to what life alone together feels like. They found that they quite liked being left to their own devices. They liked the idea of being alone together a lot._

_She kissed his shoulder; resting her chin on it since he was hunched over the railing enough for her to reach what usually was too far up out of her reach. Her head always fit perfectly under his chin when he was standing up straight. She can remember that perfectly from the amount of times they embraced over time, from adolescence to adulthood, his arms were a home. Being in them was something she didn't think twice about, something she hadn't thought to fear losing until she eventually did._

_They didn't say a word, but they didn't need to._

"A-A-Are you okay?"

For a second it takes her to open her eyes, squinting against the sun, she almost convinces herself she'd imagined that voice. But there he is.

Bill had had enough of tossing and turning and left his room a half hour ago, only to find that he was unconsciously walking towards the Hanlon's house.

He's standing in the yard, eyebrows furrowed at what had her so distant and detached, when her eyes fall upon him. That head of auburn hair is slightly messy in a way she was once familiar with and she can see it; him getting out of bed then lazily combing through it with his fingers before setting off for the day without a glance at his reflection. It's a stark difference to the clean, unwrinkled clothes that hang off his frame.

"Uh, yeah, of course," Y/N stammers, "I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well."

 _She's lying to you_ , a voice in the back of his head croons.

It's as if that dormant part of him that still knows her, no matter how small, caught one of her tells without him realizing it. He always used to catch her when she lied to him. She sucked at deceiving him because of how open and honest they tried to be. It seems that he still can catch it sometimes. Does that mean she might be able to catch his lies?

He cocks his head to the side, as if looking at her harder would give him answers. Instead, he plays along with the lie.

"I d-d-didn't sleep well either. Although, I never s-sleep well so that isn't n-nuh-new."

This time she's the one furrowing her brows at him.

For all of the time they shared a bed, which was a fairly large chunk of their lives, he was a deep sleeper, not someone who was restless. There's probably a million memories she has of him snoring in her ear every night they were together. What he said puts a bad taste in her mouth; the idea of the changes in him that she hasn't been there to witness. It makes her wonder what else about him has changed over the years. If he's even the same man she once knew.

But the feeling of his eyes burning a hole through her makes her remember that she's not decent and the tank top she fell asleep in is too thin to conceal the fact that she's braless and her shorts, comfortable pajamas she relies on getting her through hot summer nights, are too short for her to feel comfortable in front of him.

_Jeez, that's a change too._

She used to be comfortable walking around naked in front of him with not a single twinge of embarrassment or insecurity, yet now her arms cross over her chest at his lingering gaze.

He hadn't been staring at her lack of clothing, he was staring at where her slightly short, slightly disheveled tank top had been shifted to expose a scar. A scar he'd forgotten about. A scar that makes some foreign, young part of him recoil with guilt. Why guilt? Why-oh... _right_. And as if it had never left, that fight in the cistern burns brightly in the back of his mind. Her body thumping on concrete, blood spraying onto him. Was that the reason he can't stand the sight of blood?

The scar stretches from hipbone to hipbone and he can only see what isn't covered by her shorts, the rest is left up to what he's reaching for in his memory. And just like that, in flashes, he recalls kissing that scar. Multiple times, so he supposes he did it often. Just knowing that she was once in a state of undress enough for him to get that close makes him shift uncomfortably. It isn't that it's unappealing, he actually finds her to be breathtaking and can't figure out why exactly she chose to be with him in such a way, but he doesn't know her. Well, of course he  _knows_  her and now remembers some of their interactions, but it's been a while and people change. For all he knows she could be a different person compared to what he can remember of her.

Bill, manners suddenly coming back to him, realizes it's rude to stare and that she might very well take offense to it and flicks his eyes back up to her face.

"I c-can't believe what happened to S-S-Stan. I knew he was traumatized and we all are, but that?"

She says gently, "I think his heart couldn't bear it, all that pain. Even with Patty."

Stanley loved his wife. Loved her the way he once loved Y/N, maybe even more, but even that love couldn't keep what that call had brought back to him and a part of them both understand why. Those memories trap you in them, as they'd once trapped Bill thirteen years ago on the floor of the cistern. They eat you alive and Stan just didn't have it in him to fight. It's truly tragic.

The way she said it makes him feel the urge to tear up, the sadness in her eyes. Her emotion provokes what he'd wanted to avoid all morning.

"Do y-you wanna go get breakfast? I think I remember there being a diner not far from h-h-here," Bill asks, chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously.

"Oh," She murmurs with a pause of timidity.

Her plan was to avoid spending time with him. It only seemed fitting, assuming that keeping a distance would make their inevitable goodbye at the end of the week much easier. Also, it felt a bit painful to be around him. Not that there was something wrong with him or any of that instantaneous chemistry had dissipated, no way. It's the fact of having to keep a distance when in the same room as him that makes being near him so painful. It's the fact of biting her tongue about the son he doesn't know he has and being afraid of speaking out of fear that everything she swore on the drive up here to never mention will come tumbling out.

But, at the same time, she wants to know how he's been and what he's been up to. There's a curiosity surrounding the mystery that he's been to her these last eleven years, so strong it might consume her. And, if she's to be honest, the hopeful gleam in those eyes is hard to turn down.

He almost tells her to forget it, that it's early and he's just trying to get a grasp on the past, but she interrupts that.

"You're right, there's a diner down the street actually. I'll get dressed."

-

The diner is pleasant for where it's located. He wouldn't expect something so lovely to be placed in such a sinister place; where children and now adults are being slaughtered every week while everyone looks the other way.

That was another thing eating away at him, the murders, It. What he remembers of the monster is enough to make his blood run cold and his hands begin to tremble.

But that isn't what this is about anyway; the diner, the breakfast, wanting to talk to her. This was him coincidentally being starving and curious at the same time.

"So," Y/N says as she fiddles with the pink packets of sugar that were set out for them, "What has the wonderful Bill Denbrough been up to recently?"

They decided on a table in the corner of the building, not completely hidden from the morning sun, but shielded from it shining in their eyes. Unbeknownst to him, this was their table. It was the table they went on countless dates in. She even remembers making out with him on the side of the booth he's sitting on when they were sixteen and it makes her frown. But she keeps playing with sugar packets to keep her hands busy and forces a smile to her face to fool him into believing her facade of a happy, bright and shiny Y/N. Not the reality; the hollow, empty pit of loneliness and sorrow that lurks beneath her skin like a poison that's been spreading for eleven years straight.

He internally rolls his eyes at the "wonderful" bit but obliges her.

"Um, I've been w-wri-writing a lot."

"You always write a lot."

A once-familiar laugh that makes somewhere deep inside her chest feel warm and fluttery fills the air around them.

"I guess so," Bill says, "Other than that, it's not m-m-much. I live in Jersey, Princeton actually, and it's nice there. It doesn't r-rain a lot, t-t-that's pretty nice."

He always hated the rain. It was always raining in Seattle, but he was so happy when they were together that it helped dull what pain rainstorms caused him. On his end though, that happiness is nonexistent. He was alone in Seattle and the rain drowned him. No years of happiness and love, no little boy with blue eyes and bravery akin to his own...

It makes her pause making whatever it is she's building out of carefully stacked sugar packets.

He lived in Princeton all this time and she was a twenty-minute drive across the state border to where he lived. All these years and he was a drive from her house. It's almost crueler now that she knows where he's been. It would've been easier to find out if he'd been living in Europe or Asia, somewhere with an obscene amount of distance between them, but that was too close.

"Y-You?"

"Oh, well, I don't know. Not much. I live in Pennsylvania, work in Philly. It's nothing."

His heart jumps at her saying she lives so close.

How long had he unknowingly lead his life practically next to her's? They could have crossed paths more than once and yet here they are.

"W-What about being a veterin-n-narian? Isn't Philly dangerous?"

"It's not too bad. Not nearly as dangerous as Derry on a year like this, in Philly there's theft and violence in areas of it, in Derry there's a monster mutilating masses of little kids every thirty-ish years and getting away with it-"

The waitress coming over to their table cuts her off, a pitcher in her hand.

They both shut up and awkwardly smile at her, trying to pretend she wasn't just talking about what no one here ever acknowledges. Their waitress smiles brightly back at the two of them and faces him first.

"Coffee?" A gesture to the hot pitcher in her grasp, that beautifully manicured hand shaking a bit to hold it up with the strength of just one arm, "We have cream and-" Her hazel eyes drift to the small structure Y/N had built out of the stacked sugar packets in an effort to distract herself from the man across the table, "sugar."

Bill gives her a half-hearted grin, out of pity he supposes for having to deal with them of all people, and says, "No, thank you," His eyes search for the name tag on the breast pocket of her shirt, "Lauren. I'll have w-w-w-water instead."

"Sounds great, Bill."

Expecting her to pass on the offer as well, he anticipates her to leave, but Y/N's sweet voice reaches his ears.

"I'll have some," but Lauren doesn't look her way as she pours the cup of coffee, her gaze is fixed on Bill.

There's a brief silence that makes them both want to squirm with discomfort while the woman finishes pouring it, takes their food orders, and then walks off, both waiting until she's far enough away to begin speaking again.

His eyes follow every movement while she rips open three of the pink sugar packets and dumps all of it into the black liquid, opting for one cup of cream rather than her usual two as well until it's a deep brown color. Even imaging the bitter taste of it without the cream and sugar makes her want to grimace. Whenever he did drink coffee back when they were together, he drank it black and she always asked him how the hell he enjoyed it that way or how he enjoyed the type of drink in the first place. But it's not like he remembers.

"I t-thuh-thought-" His fingers are grazing the ceramic mug, "You drink tea, right? You always asked me to m-m-make you tea, you hated drinking c-coffee."

The words just slipped out. He doesn't know where that little bit of knowledge on her stance on coffee versus tea came from, but it simply became something from nothing as soon as she asked the waitress to pour her some and he remembered her sitting in a chair with a book in her lap and a cup of tea on the table beside her. And remembered making her a cup of it before bed and the way her lips would taste if he kissed her while she was drinking it. That last one makes his eyes flicker down to her mouth, his own lips parting a bit. It makes him wonder again, for what feels like the millionth time, how long did what they had together last and how serious was it? It's a burning question and he's desperate to find out more about what they meant to each other, but it feels out of place. Especially with the conditions they came here under; to come back to kill It once and for all. That was what this was for, not for whatever they were or the Losers, it was to save people from what they didn't know was right under their noses. To avenge Georgie and Stan and every other person It has taken from the world...

Y/N says, "I used to only drink tea, but coffee ended up being an acquired taste-I'm surprised you remember that."

In the back of her mind, she wonders how much he really remembers. If he's holding back or genuinely is this clueless about their past. It's impossible for her to understand his obliviousness because Warner made her remember. Every day she woke up and saw him and couldn't possibly forget Bill. She can't imagine the bliss of not feeling the pain their separation caused, not for a second thinking that maybe him forgetting wasn't a blessing at all. Because if he knew what he missed, it wouldn't be. Even now, even as he's grasping at straws to connect what he can't remember in his head, he wishes he knew. She didn't think, not for a second, that perhaps feeling  _something_ was better than not feeling anything at all.

Is it better to forget, as to not feel the pain of losing each other, or remember and live through that agony? That question has been following her for years and her answer never changes. If she could forget him she would've by now.

"Why are you s-s-surprised, it's not like you remember a-anything more than we all do. Mike's the only one who d-does cause he came back," He counters and takes a few of the stray sugar packets from her side of the table to have something to do with his hands.

"Right," She looks down, "Yeah I just, I was surprised because you saying that brought it back and I was just-you're right."

The silence between them is so loud it makes her ears ring.

"Do you remember me?" Bill asks.

And she can barely stand to look him in the eye. Because it's painful and it makes breathing a difficult task.

That's a question she should be asking him, not the other way around. She remembers him in every word their son stutters on and every time he laughs. Anytime she tried to be with someone else it felt wrong. It shouldn't have, he'd forgotten about her and it had been years before she tried, but it felt like she was cheating on him. It felt like betrayal and she would back out every time.

Does she remember him? How could she not?

"Kind of. I remember parts of it, why? Do you remember me?"

 _Technically_  not a lie, she does remember parts of it. Some small, finer details have escaped her due to natural forgetfulness. But the entire time she waits for him to answer, it feels like she got the wind knocked out of her.

He bites his lip, looking down at the packets he's fiddling with before looking back up at her again.

It's complicated. He remembers a few things, what he was able to recall during the cab ride and last night, but the rest is gone. The rest is uncharted territory he hopes she can help him through.

"Yeah. Now I do, before I didn't, but b-b-being here and seeing you again brought t-things back," Bill says, "I remember most of what happened with I-I-It, with Georgie, Neibolt, and what it did to you...I remembered some other stuff with you and me too."

The blush spreading across his face tells her that by "some other stuff", that includes some moments that even thinking about right now has her breaking eye contact with him. It can't be anything too recent though, not if he doesn't remember Warner. It must be from when they were younger.

Most of what he remembers more vividly are memories in Derry and when they were together here, which, on its own, is a lot when it comes to their history together. Anything beyond that are scraps, brief glimpses of them and their lives that are a fraction of a second long. Her hands cupping a warm mug of herbal tea, a kiss they shared in the car one afternoon, that one, that he doesn't recognize is from when they were visiting the cabin in the mountains, when he was kneeling in front of her. But, with more life and context to them, he can recall their lives when they were living here. He can remember It and that summer and those years following it before they all left. He still remembers when they first began dating, when he told her he loved her, and lost his virginity to her. A lot of his firsts happened with her, that much he knows.

But before she can say anything (and in reality, she was saved from a conversation about forgetting she doesn't want to have), their waitress comes back with their breakfast.

They eat and, for a change, their questions cease for the duration of their meal. Both of them were starving, Y/N had barely eaten throughout the eight-hour drive up here and the last thing Bill had was something from the hotel vending machine last night an hour before sleeping, and they settled on talking about what they knew of the murders instead of personal questions. It's easier. Facts were easier than emotion and it eased the nerves bubbling in their stomachs at the one on one interaction. Her cup of coffee sits untouched though and she opts for stealing some of his orange juice instead of drinking it.

When the check comes back after they paid (they both insisted on paying, but settled for splitting it), there's writing on it and she leans over to see what it is before he tries to fold it in half. The waitress' number, no doubt for the man she was ogling every time she came to the table. He doesn't bother reading it and it's in his pocket to throw away later before she can, but knowing that she'd slipped him his number is enough to make her irrational with a feeling she hasn't recently been familiar with. It was common, jealousy, when they were together years ago. Men and women both hit on him, as they did her which no doubt made him jealous to a degree that he was self-aware enough to admit bordered on irrational, and no matter how much it happened she never could stop the way it enraged her, especially when she was sitting right next to him.

But Y/N keeps that shoved far down and tries not to let him see it as they stand from the booth. She doesn't have the right to feel that way anymore.

So distracted by one other, by the time they walk out of the diner neither of them bother to wonder how the waitress knew him by his nickname.

-

He tried not to let the usual doubts and hesitancy take control of him the closer he got to Derry, but by the time the bus began to pull into the town, his heart was pounding far too fast to be normal.

Warner hops off the last step of the bus, happy to be off the damn thing and on his own two feet again, and into the heart of his parents' hometown.

He frowns a bit. It's not much different from any other town at first glance. The street he was let off on, where the bus station is, is at the edge of the town and is practically deserted if he excludes the station, the train yard not far from where he's standing, and the street he's at the corner of with a church at its end.

There's a small part inside of him recoiling at the place and he's unsure why.

Maybe coming here had been a mistake, an impulsive, reckless mistake, but he can't go back now. He spent most of his money on the bus ticket and the rest is for spending here until he finds out where his mom is.

In all honesty; he's freaking out on the inside.

It seemed much easier to pick up and leave home, to follow his mother up here on the chance that she might be here with his dad, but now that he's here he's beginning to remember that he's still a kid. That back home he may have felt safe and secure, but this is a whole other world that he hasn't yet discovered and doing so without the guiding help of his mother is terrifying. Not to mention that she called to check up on him twice already and he was praying that the phone wouldn't pick up on background noise that might expose him.

It feels a little surreal is all. He's never done anything like this before and the idea of how much trouble he's going to get into when she finds out...he avoids that though, the inevitable outcome for running away making him cringe, and takes out his phone to see where he is in town when a scream pierces through the air.

Warner whips around to look in the direction the scream came from, pausing his search for Derry on his phone, and finds himself staring down the street with the Church on the corner. There doesn't seem to be anyone on that street though, the Church is vacant of cars nearby or any sign of activity inside and as far as he can tell the house at the end looks entirely abandoned.

He finds himself being pulled away from it, unconsciously, as if some invisible force was forcibly turning him away, and is about to look back down when it happens again.

Loud and, this time he can clearly hear it, bloodcurdling.

It's a feminine scream and it's so loud that he wonders why nobody else is noticing it. Why the people outside of the bus station are turning away and not rushing to figure out who's crying for help. And he almost feels it again, the push to walk away and ignore it that goes against every good instinct in him that tells him to go find and help the person, but he holds firm. He squints down that lonely street and strains to listen for more.

"N-N-Neibolt street," His voice mutters so softly that it's swept away under the summer breeze before it can even reach his ears.

The next scream, so frightful and desperate that it sends actual chills down his spine, sends him into a sprint.

His backpack bounces on his shoulders with every thundering stride he makes towards the source of that noise. It's hard to keep moving towards the sound as he passes the Church, that invisible presence threatening to grip him by the neck and drag him away, but he grits his teeth and throws everything he has into moving forward.

Someone was screaming-a girl, he thinks, is screaming out for help at the top of her lungs and he can't ignore it. That goes against every instinct he has.

But he can't deny the fear that spreads through him, as quick and striking as a poison, the closer he gets to the source of the sounds. He can almost make out what she's yelling now that he's halfway to where she is; that abandoned house he'd almost overlooked that is beginning to look increasingly sinister the closer he draws to it. It's yard, surrounded by a terribly rusted iron wrought fence, is overgrowing with half-dead grass so far gone it's almost the color of hay, and looks like the last place he would've expected to end up if had you asked him a few days ago.

He comes to a stop at the opening in the fence, standing exactly where Bill once stood twenty-seven years ago.

"Is anybody in there?" He yells between cupped hands.

And for the girl and boy trapped inside the house, the sound of someone outside might as well have been the sound of heaven's angels singing.

The returning scream she lets out is all he needs to go running into the house of the devil itself, not even knowing what it is he's signing himself up for the moment he crosses onto the property. The hay textured grass crunches under his feet with every step, then it's the sound of the wooden steps on the porch creaking under his weight, but then-silence. The moment he steps foot through the open front door of what has to be the most spine-chilling place he's ever been, his entire world turns cold and quiet. As if there never was a girl and boy trapped inside calling out for help that they doubted would come to aid them.

 _This place is disgusting_ , he thinks as he sweeps his eyes over the house he'd stormed into. What he assumes once must have been a lovely family home, the place where he stands serving as the graveyard of a living room and foyer, is now a barren wasteland of dust and decay. He's almost afraid to touch anything, even the walls, as he forces himself onward.

"Hello?" Warner yells, hesitantly stepping onto the first bottom step of the staircase.

Everything around him has gone still. The faint ticking of a distant clock, a clock so old he wonders how it was still ticking, fading out into a numbed, buzzing silence.

What he doesn't realize is that the people  who he'd heard are still there, but are now frantically searching for a way out now that whatever had been hunting them is distracted.

Distracted by the son of it's greatest enemy.

-

The sun is hot on her back as she walks along the path through the forest that she once remembers taking years ago.

Right before they left the diner, he asked if she wanted to go see a place, the Barrens, he vaguely remembered. It's a spot along the river, where the sewer leaks into the water, not far from the kissing bridge. But things aren't going as smoothly as he hoped they would. Because though she'd agreed to go, she's been distant ever since they left the diner. They're walking there and every time he tried to ask a question or initiate a conversation, she withdrew further into herself.

Bill, with his face covered in a light layer of sweat, follows her through the brush and trees. With every step closer, he remembers more of the time he spent in Derry as a child. They came here all the time. He came here with her all the time, but she doesn't seem as amazed by the pieces of their past falling back into place. His eyes follow her movements and track every hard, calculated step.

He tried asking her about her life at home, asked her if she had any family or anyone, right when they were leaving, but she found a way to divert him from that conversation. Ever since, she's been giving him the cold shoulder. And it's starting to annoy him, make him wonder what the hell he ever did to deserve that treatment. So what, they had history in the past and, obviously, things ended if they ended up separated for all these years, but that doesn't mean he would ever be so callous and cold to her. So why can she be that way to him?

"It's up here, around the c-corner," Bill says, frowning.

"I know."

Her curt response deepens that frown. Had she always been this brash and arrogant?

There's a gap between the trees and then wide, open space leading up to a rushing source of water. In the summertime, the grass stands tall up to his knees and everything around them is bright with color. Air is humid, so hot that it's making him sweat worse than he has in years and he remembers walking with her right through here twenty seven years ago. All seven of them, after the fight against It in the cistern. He was walking between Mike and Beverly, Y/N out in front of them with Richie.

For a minute or so, they trek alongside the river in silence.

She can feel his eyes staring at the back of her head the entire time and it's making her have to place her hands deep into the pockets of her pants, trying to be calm and keep the nervousness from showing as it so clearly would if he saw her trembling hands. It's surreal to be back here, with him, again. The flattened circle of grass she's stepping into makes her halt though, mid-thought.

The promise.

"W-W-Why did you stop?" He asks.

He's only fifteen feet behind, hurrying a bit more now that she's stopped to catch up, and it makes her stomach drop once then he's standing behind her. Why is it that she can practically feel his presence so intensely when he's near to her? Was it always this intense, their chemistry? Because,  _god_ , being so close to him yet at the same time being forced to keep herself at a distance...it's making her tense.

But there's something else taking up her attention; the small plot of land beneath her feet.

This was where they all stood, hand in hand, each with a cut that was an inch in length on their right hands, to promise to come back. To never let It kill another generation of children again. Y/N realizes, with a sinking feeling in her gut, that the generation she promised to save is that of her son's.

 _Our_ , she mentally corrects herself, turning to look at the man who fathered that young boy,  _our son's_.

She shakes her head, as if to clear her thoughts, and opens her mouth to speak.

"I-This was where we made the promise," At the raised eyebrows and confused glance he casts her way, she clarifies, holding up her right hand, "Where we promised to come back if It wasn't dead."

And just like that, the fog in his mind clears over that specific memory and he's hit with everything from the conversations they all had sitting here beside the river to when he'd made a clean slice along the right palm of every one of them. There was a heaviness to the air between them when he made the cut on her hand and lingering eye contact that doesn't settle quite right in him as he recalls it. No matter what he does, memory after memory slams into him everywhere he turns in Derry. With the cab ride, his talks with the Losers, this morning with her, and now, he's being bombarded with them on this journey to his past. But still not the ones he's desperate to know. Not the ones of his life after Derry. His life in college and Seattle...

He's desperate to uncover everything, leave no stone left unturned within his mind, and get an answer, once and for all, on what he's been missing all this time. What that void that made its home in him all these years was caused by.

A few days ago there wasn't anything on his right palm, but now? It makes him clench his jaw tightly in fear. Now there's a faded, white line stretching diagonally along the centermost part of his hand.

"Fucking hell," He curses, turning away, one hand wrapped around his wrist as he stares down at the scar.

She keeps her fidgeting to a minimum by keeping her hands still back in her pockets, relying on that to hide it from him.

"You never noticed it before?"

Had  _she_?

For all of these last eleven years, it had been unmarked, smooth skin.  _Almost too smooth_ , a voice in the back of his mind echoes, a warning and a blessing. Because that leads him to his next thought; why hadn't he noticed it before? She'd asked him that question as if she were surprised, as if she knew it was there all along and something wasn't keeping her from seeing it.

A cool breeze ruffles through his hair as he turns back to face her.

Had it been able to put some kind of glamour on him to hide the evidence of what it did to him? To keep his memories in the dark, all the way from Maine? He wonders how that kind of thing is possible, even though he knows that it's supernatural, that it can make you see and hear and even feel things that aren't real. It was something he learned early on in that summer when they were kids, to never trust the senses that might betray him.

"No, it w-wuh-was gone for as long as I can r-remember-"

Hands, that had once been plain and unscathed in even the farthest depths of his memory, that were holding a woman's tightly. No, the woman was holding  _his_ right hand tightly, as if she needed to to survive. Then when she let go, a scar he'd become so accustomed to seeing he didn't even flinch when it came into view became revealed to his eyes. The memory cuts off quicker than it had begun.

That was her, that had to have been her-

She huffs, "What is it?"

"N-Nothing," Bill lies, not willing to tell her anything if she won't do the same for him, "I j-j-just remembered the whole thing with that s-summer and it's overwhelming..."

 _He's lying_ , a voice in the back of her head whispers to her. At the diner, he'd said he already remembers that summer and the years he'd lived in Derry following it, even the time they were together that she has neglected to bring up or answer his questions about. What reason does he have to lie? She's lying because she's trying to keep Warner a secret, but he doesn't have any secrets of that magnitude, does he?

Then they're silent again, caught in a stare-down, shoulders square and both of their eyes blazing with that accusatory fire. Y/N furrows her brows at him.

"You're hiding something," Her voice is harsh enough to make him flinch and he doesn't understand why that makes him upset.

She's infuriating and this whole time they've been walking here, she's been difficult and unresponsive, like a dial tone, and now she's trying to call him out on one little lie?

Bill doesn't know whether to laugh or yell, he's so frustrated. Between his foggy, faded memory, her avoidance and attitude, the inexplicable grief that he feels rooted deeply in him for the loss of someone he can't even remember, and this entire situation with It, he's so overstimulated with emotion and information to process that it's making him want to cry.

" _I'm_  the one hiding something?" He asks incredulously, "You really can't be one to t-t-t-t-talk."

Her jaw clenches so hard that he can visibly see it in her face, the sharp lines of her jawbone when she does it making her face appear more angular and defined.

She has to swallow back the lump in her throat at that, at him calling her out on her shit. But she can't tell him. There's no way he could get her to. With Warner, with their past, it might as well be an unstoppable force with an immovable object. No matter how hard he pushes her, she will not yield. They've lived without him all these years and to bring his father into his life now of all times? It would hurt him more than it would help him. Or at least that's what she tells herself.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Y/N says, not realizing she's stepping closer.

"It means e-e-exactly what you think it does, you've been hiding something this whole time and it's obvious to suh-see that."

And he looks down at her to see those eyes glaring back up at him with daggers and almost feels some part of him, far away, deep inside, feel alive at the sight of so much emotion in her face despite the fact that all of it is rage directed straight at him. The entire time she's been here it's like she was a shell of what he could manage to remember of her. Something about her hadn't quite felt like those memories, but with every word he lets out she rises to the challenge with a blazing fire in her heart that he once had loved so dearly.

It's scorching hot out and this encounter makes that increase tenfold.

"You unbelievable jerk, I didn't have to spend my day with you! I chose to spend time catching up with you when, in all honesty, there are about a hundred places I'd rather be right now than sweating my ass off out here with you, but we have a job to do. We aren't here to argue like children, although I know that's all you're inclined to do!" She spits like there's venom in her mouth, "And you're a hypocrite, telling me I'm hiding things while you are too!"

How had he told her he missed her at Mike's house? Was this why they broke up? This ridiculous petty kind of arguing? No wonder they weren't together anymore if they didn't get alone this much, thank god he didn't get stuck with her if this is what she's always like. They must not have kept dating for long after High School then.

With a lack of better judgment, he spews exactly what comes first to his mind in the heat of the anger and frustration, "What was I thinking when we were kids, if you're always this rude and arrogant, I can't possibly see why I ever loved you."

The look on her face makes him want to take it all back.

Those words hit Y/N like a physical blow to the gut and it's written across her face, that shock and utter misery.  _I can't possibly see why I ever loved you_. The way he'd said it...he meant it and it's that that makes her bottom lip begin to wobble as she tries to fight the urge to cry. She wants to reason with herself, to tell herself that he's just angry and confused with what they're going through and is just taking it out on the nearest person he can, but it's impossible. What he said was the last thing she ever thought would come out of his mouth, even with a decade of time and lost memory separating them.

That was the first time he bothers mentioning what they had and that's what comes out is- _I have to get out of here_ , she thinks,  _before I start crying_. She can't stand the idea of letting him see her cry.

Her face is turned up to meet his eyes, her body supported where she leans up on her toes to make herself taller, crowding his space in a way that makes him want to squirm.

"You're pathetic, William," She snaps, knowing he hates his given name and using it for that very reason, "I can't believe I ever thought you we're the love of my life, because all I see in front of me is a frustrated, petulant little brat who's taking his anger out on someone because he's confused and upset. Did I get that one right?"

Even with the anger that is there, he can still hear the waver in her voice and knows what it means. Knows that he truly hurt her.

His eyes move from side to side frantically and he searches her face for any sign of her being able to forgive him for that, to see if there's anything he can do to get her back to where she'd been before. The unresponsive dial tone, the detached, wistful woman standing on Mike Hanlon's porch- _anything_  but this hatred she has for him. It's that younger, past part of him that's recoiling in horror at seeing her so upset. It's the parts of himself he doesn't remember that are making him want to lurch forward and stop her from moving away, from leaving things like this. But it's the current him, the part of him that knows only bits and pieces, that's disgusted with himself. He's never said something so insensitive before, what came over him? Sure, she was brooding and distant the whole walk out here, but what right did that give him to say what he did?

He stammers, his own voice beginning to shake, "Y/N, I'm s-s-s-s-so s-s-suh-" never has he hated his stutter so much as he does right now for keeping him from this apology.

She scowls, then pushes past him and knocks him hard with her shoulder as she moves to storm past, barely holding it together enough to say, "Go fuck yourself."

The sounds of her thundering footfalls are audible from where he's left standing, in the center of that circle where they'd once held hands, until she's so far down that path through the forest that he's unable to hear her anymore. Still, he stands there, frozen, for a few long minutes.

He made a mistake so bad, he isn't even sure she'll talk to him again outside of when they're with the Losers. It makes his stomach twist itself into a knot. How could he do that to her?  
He sinks to the ground, his knees hitting the soft grass with a barely audible sound, and drops his head into his hands.

Everything is getting out of hand. Derry, with It back and preying on its citizens just as it had so many years ago when he was only a boy. This situation with his memory, that he can't seem to reach past the end of his nineteenth year no matter what he tries, and now her. Now, she wants nothing to do with him and they had been off to a decent start last night and today. He was beginning to see why he felt so connected to her until they came here, until he ruined it.

He doesn't get from the ground up for a long, long time.

-

Warner has always been, naturally, a courageous person.

With a small group of friends in Elementary school, he explored an abandoned building in a not so safe part of the city (which he now looks back on as one of the most idiotic things he ever did) without so much as a hint of fear in him, meanwhile his friends were, rightfully so, shaking with it.

But if you were to ask him, at this moment in time, if he were brave? He would tell you he's so terrified that he almost pissed himself upon seeing what crept around the corner of the stair landing in the house at the end of Neibolt street. Fear became him in the span of a few seconds, but there was nothing he could do but stare in abject horror in the direction of whatever the thing is.

He had run in after hearing screams and is now rushing back towards the front door, the old floors screeching under his running steps, as he tumbles toward it only to find a wall. A solid, smooth wall with no front door in sight.

"What the fuck?" Warner yells, horrified, and checks over his shoulder frantically to see if the creature has advanced on him.

It's halfway down the stairs and he doesn't know what to do with himself. Doesn't know whether to run or scream for help or grab something to fight it with. He decides on the latter.

The creature, what looks like the hybrid of a spider and a scorpion, scuttles down the last few steps before he swipes a dust-covered candlestick off the mantel of the fireplace and hurtles it straight at its ugly face. He's already reaching for the next thing in sight when it regains it's composure after being nailed in the face with a metal candlestick and caught off guard.

"Get away from me!" He screams at the top of his lungs.

The words are punctuated by him throwing a rusted fence post he found up against the wall at it like a javelin, throwing all of his strength into the movement. He almost cringes at the sound of it piercing the thing's skin but is still grabbing object after object, cursing profanities at it, and overall raising hell in the wake of such a terrifying monster.

 _I must be dreaming_ ,  _I have to be having a nightmare_ -one of his shoes chucked at its unsettling amount of eyes- _this isn't real and I'm still on the bus, sleeping_.

Because of the showdown between him and It, he doesn't hear the footsteps stomping down stair after stair. He's too preoccupied with fighting for his life. The spider-scorpion-demon is hissing at him, flaring its mouth wide open at him in invitation and threat, as well as it's looming stinger that could impale him in one quick movement.

He does notice the two people, the ones he heard screaming for someone to help them only minutes ago, when they round the landing corner to the last flight of steps that It descended down in search of the son of the two greatest threats to its existence to ever challenge it. And it's then that he halts, for only a fraction of a second, in fear that there's more. But they're humans. Not more of the kind of creatures he only expected to see in movies or the worst of his nightmares, but humans. Kids his age.

"Run!" One of them, the girl, shouts at him as she sprints past him and his foe, straight to the front door- _the door_.

It almost makes him stop to look when he hears her slam it open on her way through, the sound of it hitting the wall beside it rattling through the old home. The door was gone only seconds ago, was he losing his mind? The boy that's with her follows behind quickly. He can't make out their looks or anything other than the glimpse he got when they were on the stairs, as he readies to follow them out with one last thing to throw at it ready in his hands just in case.

But when he turns back around he slams into a wall.

And he only has seconds, half seconds, to dodge the blow he anticipates at his back after he fell right into its trap.

Warner flings himself to the right, out of range of the implement that had his name written all over it, and into the foyer's wall instead. His muscles, bones, tendons, his everything barks out in pain as he forces himself upright after slamming his shoulder into it at full force, but he keeps moving. He cannot die, outright refuses to.

It, on the other hand, has its stinger lodged deep into the wall.

This time that it remains stuck, a gift from whatever higher power it is that's watching over him, is what he uses to run. Running upstairs would be a death sentence, he assumes, so he keeps going right to the living room filled with cobwebs past the foyer entrance. Every breath he takes is labored, pained, and he's inhaling fifty percent dust. But he can't let himself die, even if it's only a dream he's in, his will to live outmatches anything else.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit-" He mutters.

Eyes scanning around the room, he's desperate to find a way out. It'll only be held up for so long and he only has so many options...

"What's the rush, Warner? You don't have to run from me."

That voice makes him stop dead in his tracks.

Gone is the hellish monster that was chasing him and in its place stands someone familiar, someone he loves. His mother looks at him with a look he knows all too well, concern, and outstretches a hand in his direction.

He's as still as death.

"Come here."

It looks like his mother. Her hair, her face, eyes, smile, and even her clothes are something he's seen her wear before. Plus, he's dreaming, isn't he? That's the only possible explanation for all of this. He wants to go to her, more than anything, but then there's a voice. A shrill, screaming voice pounding on the other side of the front door that brings him back. It's the girl who had run outside, who had been screaming for help.

He can't make out the words of what she's yelling or what the boy with her is yelling, but he snaps out of his trance at the sound of them.

"I've been so worried about you, Warner, Grandma and Grandpa called and told me you weren't there when they got to the house. We had people looking everywhere for you," It croons.

There's a moment he spends subtly trying to scan the room for something-anything-to escape from or use to escape until-the window.

One of the windows is almost broken, so close to shattering that one hard tap and that thing would have pieces of broken glass scattering to the ground in seconds. It was as if someone had been banging on it for help...

"Your Dad was worried about you too."

He tenses.

Whatever hellish nightmare this is, he wants to wake up. He wants to pinch himself and wake up with the bus jolting his head against the window, the driver telling him that it's his stop and when he gets off he'll find his mom waiting for him there. He wants to spend the week with his Grandparents like he was supposed to because even though Mom has a rocky relationship with Grandma, they still loved him to pieces and would do anything for him. That's how he realizes that this isn't right, that it isn't his mother and he needs to escape from whatever the hell it is whether it's a nightmare or not.

She takes one step closer and says, "Bill loves you more than you could ever know, he was so upset when they called us. Come here," A pause and then a smile, a smile it faked badly, "Come here and I'll take you home to see your Dad."

His grip tightens around the object, a flashlight, he's still holding in a need for something to hold onto to keep himself steady. It's at this moment that he stops trembling. He knows that he has the ace in his hand and won't let himself fear this imposter.

It does a bad impression of his mother anyway.

Warner smiles, a sickeningly sweet, condescending smile and says, "I don't have a dad, you lying fuck."

Then, he's gone.

Rushing forward so fast that he didn't have a chance to see the bewildered expression on its face, his feet nearly slip on the layer of dust covering the hardwood floor as he leaps up onto the arm of the couch and uses it as a step-stool to throw himself into the window.

It shatters around his body instantly and he's sent barreling for the ground without a shred of mercy for his already aching muscles. He hits the ground hard, harder than he thought he would, but doesn't feel the pain. Adrenaline is rushing through him too quickly for that, too quickly for him to feel the pain of the pieces of glass that managed to slice him open either.

There's the sound of footsteps and yelling in the time he spends, groaning in pain and trying to lift himself up from the ground, before he feels two pairs of hands on each arm hefting him up from where he'd been laying in a pile of broken glass and blood. He cries out when they let him up on his feet, about to say he can't do it, but there's a sound from the house behind him and he's moving again.

Somehow, through everything, he finds the strength to make himself run.

-

Y/N didn't mean a word she said back at the Barrens.

Mike's house is mostly silent, save for her and Beverly sitting on the porch in the darkness of night. He's asleep upstairs and had retreated to his room after an hour or so of talking with them, too tired from the time he spent around town with Eddie and Richie all day long. It was only after everyone was in bed, asleep, that she dared to try to talk about what happened today.

Her lips are pressed into a firm line.

Should she even bother opening this can of worms? And is it even right to? Amid all of this chaos and considering the fact that they're here for a reason much more serious than her ridiculous drama with her-she pauses-with Bill. All of this time and here they are, back where it all began. Sometimes she looks out at the street beyond the Hanlon's house and feels her stomach fluttering to the fear that crescendoes in response to being in this wretched place. Her logical side wants to keep it in, not say a word, even if it's Beverly Marsh and the woman she was always able to go to for help, but her younger self urges her to speak. The woman, the girl, she once was is calling out to her friend in need.

"If I tell you something," Y/N says and breaks the silence, "Will you keep it a secret?"

Bev's eyebrows furrow deeply at that, a bemused expression crossing her face, and leans closer. Her hair is spilling over her shoulders in beautiful red curls that end just below the inmost curve of her waist and her hand, snow-white against the darkness that's only interrupted by the yellow light of the porch light, tucks one of those ringlets behind her ear.

They haven't been in contact in years, but the moment they saw each other again in the living room, everything snapped back into place as if nothing had changed. The girls who'd banded together to defeat an evil so vile when they were only so young, the girls who'd confided in each other for years, they were still there and so is their friendship.

She nods.

It takes Y/N a while to rally the courage to say it out loud after eleven years of silence and hiding, but she manages to speak.

"I've been hiding something and I don't think I can do it anymore, at least not with you."

Beverly's green eyes widen, concern flooding her features, but the other woman doesn't give her a chance to ask what it is before she confesses.

"I-" A sharp pause of hesitation, "What does the name Warner mean to you? Do you remember him?"

Judging by the complete confusion still lingering on her face, one would guess the answer to be no. But she's trying to grasp at that clue to the past even if it seems that it means nothing to her. It rings a bell. It piques her interest, but it's not enough to fully revive that memory.

The wind is warm against their skin as it blows across the porch, making the swing they're sat on sway slightly in its wake. There's a hoot of an owl not far off.

Y/N's eyes move from one side of the porch to the other, throwing a glance over her shoulder to check if someone-or something-might be lurking or listening before she talks, trying not to let the fear and sorrow reach her voice.

"Beverly...He's-You were living with me when I had him. He's my son, he's-he's-" She stops, a shaking breath escaping her, her eyes watering even though she's fighting to keep them dry, "He's Bill's son."

And with that, she watches her friend's face evolve from being riddled with the confusion and perplexity of her seemingly meaningless ramblings to shock. To something like recognition.

Beverly nearly beings to shake as it all comes tumbling back to her. When they all lived together in Seattle, when she was still trying to make it as a fashion designer a few years before moving to Chicago, when her two friends had been married and expecting a child. Her blood runs cold. How had she not recalled that time in her life? Before this moment, before she was told of it, that long stretch of time she spent with the Losers in that city was replaced by something uneventful and plain. Even though it had been years she lived there, something convinced her it didn't matter; to never speak of it and remember it as nothing more than a little meaningless bit of existence along the western shore.

If It could make her forget all of that, then what else could it do? What was this monster capable of if it could alter their lives so heavily?

"And I've been raising him for the last eleven years like he never had a dad, like there never was a Bill Denbrough, and now that we're all here..." Y/N shakes her head, "I keep lying to him. It's only been two days and I can't stand how much I'm lying, none of the others know and he sure as hell can't either," The feeling of Bev's hand on her arm is steadying, "We argued today like five-year-olds because he could tell I was hiding something and refusing to answer questions and I think we both said things we regret...at least, I regret them, I don't know about him..."

Her chest deflates with the heaviest sigh of relief she's ever let out.

"What am I supposed to do? Just pretend none of that ever happened? If it means his happiness, I can, but it's so hard to lie to him."

Finally, after all these years...she never spoke of it or told anyone, mostly because the only person she could have was Warner and that wasn't an option. But it doesn't change the reality, this confession, it doesn't change that there's nothing she can do about their situation other than help them kill it and move on from the life she's spent the last decade clinging to.

Bev is frowning at her, almost too overcome by all of the old memories fading back to her to speak, and grips her by the hand tightly.

"I don't know what to tell you, other than this; don't be so sure that he's better off in the dark, I-I don't think he's happy because you aren't in his life. I think he's been happy because he didn't even know you existed at all and in that, he didn't feel the pain you guys went through at the end, you know, when..."

The last sentence hits her hard and she doesn't know what to do with herself for a second, with hearing that so suddenly when it was only a whisper in her mind for so long. She didn't think Beverly would recall everything so quickly, but she did. All it took was Warner.

She wants to believe those words, wants to believe that telling him is an option and that there could be a place for her in his life, as well as a place for him in her's and Warner's, but it's unrealistic. She almost nods to herself at that;  _it's not practical, not worth it, and I'd only be doing damage._  As much as she wishes to believe in hope, in good, all she knows is pain and fear. After all, she's been trapped with it for so long. It's been eleven years. They might as well be different people than who they were when they last had been together, so she gives her friend an appreciative "thank you" and hugs her to her regardless of the fact that she can't take that advice.

They stay out on the swing on Mike's porch long into the night before they go to sleep and Beverly stays the night there, not feeling the preternatural presence that has been lingering at the edge of the property in the form of an owl the entire time.

-

A child wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of a familiar voice outside of his window. He's young, only seven, and peeks out of his blinds to look down at his back yard for the source of the sound.

It's his older sister, so he treads carefully through the house, down his stairs, and into the yard to see what she's doing outside at this hour.

He's never seen again and the creature that had been standing tall in a pair of worn pajamas, a smile on her face, was most definitely not his sister.

He dies slowly, painfully, in the cistern, crying for his mother, and the only clue of where he'd gone that is that of a torn piece of his sleeve that was caught on the grate that opens to the sewers below Derry.

-

Warner is in and out of sleep for an hour before he truly begins to wake from his rest.

When he hears the sound of a light, feminine voice whispering softly in the air surrounding him, he feels a crushing wave of worry fall off from him. It was all a nightmare. If he weren't so sluggish with sleep, he would smile. He knew it anyway, things like what he saw don't really exist. They're the things of horror movies and nightmares, not at all something he could encounter in reality. Safe and warm, that's what he is right now, tucked away in his bed back home in Pennsylvania with his mom sitting somewhere in the room. Thank god it was all a dream.

That's the only reason he lets himself relax into the mattress, rubbing his cheek against the soft-to-the-touch feeling of the cotton pillowcase beneath his head. But it's that same action that causes him to pause, a certain spot along his cheekbone aching when he rubs his face against the pillow. He usually sleeps on his stomach, but for some reason he's on his back and that also makes him frown in his sleepy daze. Still, he tries to force himself to stay in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness where he can still go back to bed if he relaxes enough.

That was one hell of a dream.

Everything from the attention to detail with his mother telling him she needed to leave for a friend's funeral and the creepy house in "Derry" (if that's even a real place) and that author he must have made up in his sleep. Sure, his mom had a friend in childhood named Bill, but that's probably where his brain got that name to attach to the dream version of his dad that he conjured up. In actuality, he's not even sure if his mom remembers the man that fathered him all that well. All he knows is that he has his eyes, that's all he was told. He almost wants to laugh. A town in Maine with a creepy, shapeshifting spider that tries to kill kids where his parents grew up, together? And  _him_ , hopping on a bus up the northeastern coast on his own, against his mother's wishes? He lets himself chuckle sleepily. How contrived! It's wild to him how real dreams can feel when you're in them, then how preposterous they are once you're out.

He mumbles, amused, "Bill Denbrough?" as if it were the most outrageous name in the world.

It's not his mother who asks in a cautious nature, "Is that what your name is...Bill?"

Warner screams and scrambles away from the sound so feverishly that he rolls right off the side of the small bed and onto the hardwood floor on the other side. The sound it made when he hit it was so hard that the girl on the other side of the bed flinched, grimacing in pain for him.

The room he's in is fairly dark, blinds and curtains shut to seal daylight out, with only a lamp on the bedside table above him to illuminate his way up onto his feet.

Every muscle aches with the movement, but he manages to stand on his shaking legs in a matter of seconds with his hands curled into fists in front of him.

"W-W-What the hell are you doing in my huh-hou-"

This isn't his house.

It takes him less than a second after opening his mouth to see that. It's a small room with two twin beds and maroon walls. Not a single room in his house looks this way, though he would quite like the room if he weren't in his current situation.

Nevertheless, he stands his ground, his jaw clenched and his stare at her harsh.

She's a pretty girl, an inch or two shorter than him, (which is damn tall considering he's above average for his age with his height), with dark skin and striking features. But the way she's looking at him almost makes him forget that he's trapped in this stranger's house, she's calm and collected and he almost can recall seeing her once before. He doesn't let his guard down though. No matter what, he keeps himself upright and doesn't let his face give way to his emotions.

Her eyes are wide as she says, holding her hands out to him, "You need to get back in bed, you're hurt."

Hurt? Is that why he feels like someone's smashing a hammer against every one of his limbs with every passing second? He figured he was just coming down from hitting the floor so hard.

He shakes his head.

"Who are y-you and w-w-w-why am I in your house?"

"You don't remember?" She asks incredulously.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly and the more time passes, the more he becomes aware of everywhere he aches with pain. Standing isn't difficult, that was only because of the fall off the bed, but he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't sore all over. Why was he in so much pain? Did she say he was hurt?

When it's clear that she isn't here to harm him, he lowers his arms a little bit.

"R-Remember what?"

She opens and then shuts her mouth, as if not sure what to say to him. What happened to them wasn't something one easily forgets and it has her at a loss for words.

"You don't remember running into the Creep House to help us? You had to jump through a broken window to escape, you've been passed out for a whole day."

Then, another voice calls from the hallway, "Yeah, we had to drag his sorry ass all the way here!"

He jolts at the sound of them, whoever they are turning the knob on the door.

The boy strides in casually, his freckled face cringing from secondhand pain at the sight of Warner standing there.

_Do I really look that bad?_

"Who the fuck are you both? Tell me r-r-r-right now or I'll..." He glances from left to right in search of something to use as a weapon, but can't find anything, "...ask nicely, I guess?"

The girl says, "Alexis. This is Jack, now will you sit back down? You're going to feel even worse if you keep going. I can explain."

Warner hesitates, stopping mid-step for a second to think and gauge the situation, before he sits back on onto the mattress. It's cushioning his knees, which he's thankful for since the bones there are screaming in pain from his fall, as he moves to sit against the headboard.

Was that whole ordeal not a nightmare? It couldn't have been real, could it? He refuses to believe that that thing exists. It's outrageous.

He goes to scratch his face, only to disrupt a bandage that was placed on the cheekbone on the side of his face where his birthmark rests. It burns with pain for the minute after he scratched it. Placing the bandaid back onto his cut, he looks over at where Alexis and Jack are sat on the other bed. He remembers as he wakes up fully. They're the kids from his "dream" and if what they're saying about that creature and house being real is the truth then that means he saved their lives.

"If y-you're saying that what happened at that house," He has to think for a moment to recall where it'd been, "The one on Neibolt street, if you're saying what h-happened there was r-r-real, then what the fuck was that thing that attacked me?"

Alexis looks down at the object in her hands carefully, the flashlight he'd picked up in the house on Neibolt street, and frowns at the memory of what had gone down on that house. A sharp scream from the other side of the hallway, a vicious animalistic growl, a cut leaking blood down her bicep. It sends shivers down the length of her spine. But then, through the darkness, there was this boy.

Her hazel eyes narrow at him; tall, thin, beat up worse than she's ever seen a person before. He heard their cries for help when she was sure that those precious few words would be their last. There's a part of her, somewhere deep inside, that wondered when she saw him standing there at the bottom of the staircase if he were an angel sent to them. Her common sense kicked in quickly after that thought, but it lingers in her mind as she looks him over. She's never seen him before in school or around town. An unfamiliar face without a name, except maybe "Bill Denbrough".

Jack, seeing that common Alexis sense of being lost in deep thought, steps up to explain, "What attacked you is...we call it the Shifter. You see, kids have been disappearing left and right since wintertime. Without a trace. So our friends have been trying to figure out what's happening. You ran in when things were getting rough."

Warner's bewilderment doesn't cease though and he shakes his head in disbelief.

The Shifter? What does that help him understand? He already saw it shift in front of him, what he wants to know is how it does what it does. How did it know his mother and-he goes pallid- _Bill_.

He instantly shuffles toward the end of the bed where they left his backpack for him, the zipper already undone, and goes rifling through it for the book his mom left on their kitchen counter that lead him to this place. To his possible...he can't even let himself think the word. It's buried under a few rolled up shirts and pants, but there it is. The paperback is softer, more worn, in his hands than it was the last time he held it in the safety of his Pennsylvania home. From being thrown around in the bag while he fought off the same interdimensional monster that terrorized his parents, it's bend around the edges of the cover and he has to smooth it out with his hands to see the front cover.

To the other two kids in the room, his words are unintelligible but he mutters so vulnerably, "The Black Rapids by William Denbrough."

If they were saying it was real, the book with the mysterious man his mom is in contact with's name on it, and there are cuts and bruises all over him...His stomach turns leaden with fear. It must mean that what he thought was a nightmare had been reality.

"That t-t-thing, the Shifter, whatever you were calling it, are you s-suh-saying it kills kids? And you have other friends? Are they still at that h-house? Are they dead-Jesus Christ, am I gonna d-d-die?"

He's beginning to hyperventilate and is scooting back along the bed with the book clutched to his chest for support.

What good will tracking his mom and that man down do if he's dead?

Alexis stands, braces her hands on the mattress, and says, "You are not going to die. Calm. Down."

 _Poor kid is so scared, he's stuttering_ , she thinks to herself.

"Then what will happen to me? M-More injuries or fights with the S-S-S-Shifter? Tell me! What the hell is going on?" He cries.

"He did tell you!" She says, "The Shifter is killing the children in our town, has been for a while, and we're trying to figure out why it is and how to stop it. We're just as clueless as you are!" But then she pauses as if considering something, "Except for maybe Rowan."

He doesn't bother asking who that is, his mind too scattered to care about another friend or the next potential victim of it, considering the fact that these two were stupid enough to go looking for the damned thing. What kind of moron walks into the den of a monster knowing they're its favorite kind of prey? If they plan on continuing their ridiculous activities, he's going to be running away from them as soon as possible. But that raises another question, where is he? He doesn't know his way around Derry and has been passed out in the room of whoever's house for a while now.

Easing his death grip on the book, he asks, "H-H-How long was I out for?"

Her answer is quick, the question that follows analytical.

"A day, what are you stuttering for? You're safe, how many times will we have to tell you before you stop shaking?"

Pink tinges his pale face at that and he casts his eyes away from her in embarrassment. It always had to get in the way of things. He prefers it to the walking bully target that is his birthmark, but it still makes speaking in front of people so difficult. He gets asked questions like that one, in a million variations, all the time. Stuttering wasn't a nervous tick or a trait he picks up when he's terrified, it's the way he talks. Then that life-long question he's had, burning in the corner of his mind ever since he realized that he had a stutter and knew nobody else in his family didn't, comes to mind. Does William Denbrough stutter, he wonders. He prays not.

At first, the idea of coming here to seek out his mother and the man who shares his last name seemed like the first real clue to discovering himself, to finding out who he is, but now? Now he wants to be home. Now he wants to turn around and never come back to this place, never again speak of Derry or what he saw in the house at the end of Neibolt street.

"I know I'm s-s-safe, I just have a speech impediment. I'm n-n-n-not cold or afraid or nervous, I stutter."

The two of them are silent, especially Alexis.

It's always awkward when he tells someone after they've made a comment that seemed okay to make until he explains it to them that that's simply the way he speaks. But he doesn't hold it against her, he learned that a long time ago, she couldn't have known.

She gives a gentle, "I'm sorry," before Jack leans forward and squints at his face. Warner is still watching her and the guilt on her face when the other boy opens his mouth to talk.

"You got your shit rocked in that house, have you seen yourself yet? Your black eye is starting to go down a bit, but you're going to be bruised badly. You're lucky her mom's a nurse, Bill, we had to steal her stuff to patch you up."

Everything inside of Warner stops. His breathing, the thoughts racing wildly through his mind, even his heart skips a beat on that name.

The room is warm, stuffy almost, and the sweater that's pulled over him makes it even worse. Unbeknownst to him, that's their friend Rowan's sweater. They called her over when he was still unconscious to see what they found at the Creep House. They waited by his bedside for a long while before giving up hope that he'd wake up yesterday night and leaving him another eight hours to rest while he healed. Apparently, throwing yourself through a plate glass window isn't the easiest thing to recover from. The black eye though? They aren't too sure how he got that and aren't sure if they want to know.

He got it from slamming face first into the wall when dodging the possibility of being impaled into the front door, but that's unimportant considering that he has so much to do now that he's awake.

It seems that the whole world is in front of him and all he has to do is reach out to take it. All he has to do is find his mother and get them out of this godless place, then there's the rest of their lives. All he wanted is for everything to go back to normal, but then Jack said that name.

"W-What did you call me?"

He sounds offended and it catches Alexis off guard.  _Why does he sound so defensive_?

She uncovers what he hadn't seen her holding the whole time, outstretching it to him with a steady hand.

"Bill," She says, "It's on your flashlight and you said it in your sleep. Is that not your name?"

The flashlight is dropped into his waiting hands, the weight of it familiar from when he picked it up yesterday and the handle rusted from what must have been years it spent in that house. On the handle is a piece of masking tape that he can tell had been super-glued (just in case) to the flashlight with the name ' **Bill Denbrough** ' scrawled in sloppy uppercase with Sharpie.

Will this man ever stop haunting him and what was his flashlight doing in that house? He's been turning up around every corner, following his every footstep into this town. His heart races. If he wasn't there to begin with, he could care less about finding out who his father might be now; coming here was a mistake. An impulsive one that drained his savings of Holiday money and will get him the grounding of his life when his mother finds out. This Bill Denbrough can fuck off for all he cares, he's getting his mom and going home. There's not a second he plans on spending in this place any longer.

"N-N-No. It's Warner, the name on the flashlight it's...a long story. S-Sorry, I'm-I can barely think straight," He says and subtly tries to hide the book revealing the same name they're questioning him about, "Would you mind giving me a minute to change and g-g-g-gather my shit together? I'm kind of a mess right now."

Jack is the first to answer, not pushing on the name thing and standing up to leave without trouble.

"Sure, you should get ready anyways. We're going to head over to Rowan's and it's in your best interest to come with."

He furrows his brows at the blonde boy.

"Why?"

"Because you seem like the kind of kid we'd get along with at school and you're one of the only people in this town who's seen the Shifter and lived to talk about it. Rowan was dying to meet you last night," He says, as if it were downright obvious, before walking out.

Is it in his best interest? As much as he wants to be done with these kids and get out, it makes him stop to think.

He's never been here, ran away from home in search of his mother, and has no other place to stay. It would be idiotic of him to burn this bridge by ditching them. And he has a point, nobody else but the three of them have fought the Shifter and lived, right? With numbers, there'd be a better chance of his survival while looking for his mom.

Alexis lingers there at the foot of the other bed. Her eyes are still searching him, what she's looking for she isn't quite sure, but her eyes linger. At the birthmark, the black eye on the other side of his face, the cut she carefully cleaned and covered with a bandage last night. There's something that she's missing. A piece of the puzzle and history of Derry she's been unraveling with her two friends that is escaping her mind.

But she leaves before he can ask her anything more.

-

Bill barely slept.

How could he have when all he could think about was the fight he had with Y/N and the creature that murdered his little brother being back on the hunt? For most of the night, he laid there staring at the ceiling in blank boredom with only one thought on his mind; _I fucked up._

That shouldn't even be the worst of his worries because they have much more troubling matters at hand with the child "disappearances" and having to track down that creature again, but something about her face when he said what he did...it broke her. He broke her and he knows he shouldn't care as much as he does since, after all, she was just his High School sweetheart and nothing more, but he did care. For some reason, he couldn't help but care. She was his best friend once, even more than that too, and that's what he had to remind himself when he wondered why he was so upset over it. That there are gaps in his memory that are the reason for such feelings.

It was stupid, he told himself, that he was even letting it get to him, but there was guilt lingering there. Despite what he told himself, about getting worked up over nothing and overreacting, he felt guilty for hurting her feelings.

Bill was still half-asleep, buried face first into his pillow a few hours into the day, when his phone began to buzz against the tabletop of the stand beside his bed. Sitting beside the crumpled up receipt form the diner that he hadn't bothered to look at, his phone was ringing and starting to slide across the table with every vibration. He groaned, annoyed that just when he began to doze off was when someone decided to call, but rolled over to swipe the device off the table anyway.

That piercing ringing sound finally ending was blessing enough for him to put up with the annoyance having to get up caused anyway as he lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" His voice was groggy and deep with sleep, a bit different than it always sounded when he was fully awake.

But the other end of the line was silent. He could barely hear a thing and even when he strained, all he could make out was very light breathing. It set him on edge, he hasn't gotten weird phone calls like this in years and it isn't a coincidence that it only happened twenty-seven years ago.

He waited a few more seconds before clearing his throat and asking, his voice a lot more true to how he usually sounds, "Who's t-thuh-this?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

It was a number he'd never seen before and the line went dead as soon as he finished speaking.

So he tossed the phone back onto the bed and plopped down in a particularly ungraceful way until he was back to lying down with his face in the pillow.

The phone rang again.

This time, he answered it immediately, not letting it get past the first ring before he clicked answer, and asked harshly to the anonymous caller, " _What_? What do you want?"

It was an awkward,  _awkward_  pause until Y/N spoke.

"Uh, are you okay? I was just calling to tell you that Mike wants us all at his house, but nobody could get ahold of you so I called."

"Shit, I'm s-sorry."

Bill covered the end of the phone and cursed, having thought it was that strange caller and not her when he picked up.  _She must think I'm an absolute asshole_ , he thought, and sat up with his legs hanging off the side of the bed.

"Just be at Mike's soon. It's important."

The call ended.

Every time he hears her speak, he can't help but feel a little lost. In memories he's trying hard to grasp onto, the interconnected loose threads of them tangled together in an unsolvable knot within his head, in the memories of her he does recall that he's brought back into with every familiar sound and expression she makes. He could get lost simply looking at her, a face long since forgotten and remade anew. There have been times in his limited interactions with her these last two days, where he's been brought back to those glimpses into time he spent with her in adulthood just from looking into her eyes. And in those glances, he finds himself longing for a time he can't even remember. Whispers of the past, echoes of a life long ago, taunting him by treading so close yet actually standing so far.

That's what lead him here, to walking down Witcham street in the sweltering heat of a mid-summer day with Y/N beside him.

When he got to Mike's house, Mike told the Losers about a little boy who disappeared in the night without so much as a whisper of where he'd gone. No leads, no ideas of where he might have escaped to, only a trail of muddy footprints in the dirt beyond his family's patio the size of a child's his age. They all split up to go look for anything to help, knowing that they know something the police and his parents couldn't possibly in knowing of It. Beverly had thrown a look of sympathy her way when the only ones left to pair were her and Bill. After the talk they had on the porch last night, those two stuck together closely in the morning they spent making breakfast with Mike.

It was easier to have someone who knew her secret. Beverly is understanding and kind. Of them all, it would've had to have been her to be the one to know. But Ben suggested they ask around at local shops and to anyone out and about of what they've heard about these "disappearances". At that point, she had to suck it up, act like an adult, and deal with spending some more time with Bill.

As they walk, she can feel his eyes on her. Though he tries to hide it, he's been staring at her this whole time and looking away whenever she tries to catch him.

Their argument was petty and ridiculous, that much he knew. He knew the split-second after he finished saying what he did back at the Barrens that it hurt her beyond a way words could convey.

_I can't possibly see why I ever loved you._

That was a lie. A terrible one at that, considering the fact that at the sound the first step she took into Mike Hanlon's living room two nights ago; he immediately felt himself fall. Nearly as hard as he can vaguely remember falling for her as a young boy. All that fills his mind is variations of the different apologies he kept trying out when sleep failed to reach him in the middle of the night and he looks at her when she turns her head from him, not realizing that he's staring right at the answer to most of his recent frustrations and confusion. She is the key to what he seeks. To the past.

He's almost too lost to hear her as they approach the area Mike has directed them to and the address sent to her phone.

"His house is at the middle of the street on Witcham. It's the..." She comes to a complete stop, "It's the one with..."

Bill finishes solemnly, "It's my parents' old house."

His voice went unsettlingly soft at that and her heart aches at the sound.

Y/N has spent the last decade reliving all they'd gone through together. In her dreams, he came to her and had never left in the first place. It was the one place that she could go where he hadn't been taken from her. And yet, all those dreams hadn't been accurate because of one heartbreaking detail. The absence of sadness and grief from his eyes. In reality, the weight of that pain hasn't lessened yet and he fears that it never will.

Georgie, who he thought had gotten run down by a speeding car under the glamor It put on his memories, had died under his watch. It ripped his arm from his body down at the corner of the street from where they stand and left the rest of him to rot. A man by the name of Dave Gardener had staggered up the front steps of the porch with his dead little brother wrapped in a quilt, soiled by blood and rain, to give him to his parents. Someone else had already called the police, having heard the screams and brought out the quilt for Dave to wrap him in. Bill was only a boy and he came running down the stairs at the sound of the doorbell, got to it before his parents could. With the sounds of his neighbor's screams and all, he was curious enough to forget the sickness that kept him in bed rather than out in the storm with his brother.

Before she died, Sharon could still hear the sound of her oldest's bloodcurdling scream that only worsened the sickness that made his throat sore, "Mooom!" It was the sound of terror taking human form. Raw and horrific. But finding him, kneeling in front of an open door with the wind and rain battering him from the front and the initial hit of that unbelievable force of grief-that he still has yet to outrun-ravaging him from within, rocking back and forth with Georgie in his arms...that's a sight that haunts her even after death.

Y/N can remember that day clearer than any.

People all over town heard George's last screams before he died and from her house on Jackson street, she could hear Bill scream for his mom. At the time, she hadn't been fully sure if it had been her new friend that she sat with at lunch every day that let out such a wail, but it was more of a feeling, deep in her gut, that told her it was him. That was when she didn't bother with shoes or a raincoat and ran so swiftly out of her house that everything around her was a blur. Though she hadn't realized or looked down to see, she splashed barefoot through a diluted puddle of blood on her way to the source of the scream. It wasn't until she got there, hand over heart and tears already flooding her eyes, that her suspicions were proven true.

Bill hadn't seen her there, but she was crying. Everyone watching nearby had shed a tear, but she was crying. She'd walked home with them so many times, seen how much he cared for him and envied their familial love. But in a matter of a few minutes, that world of childhood innocence and lighthearted love had been poisoned with a darkness so cruel, nothing would remove it.

The evidence of that stands before her, three paces to the left, in the form of a man who'd once been a boy, screaming for his mother with the last piece of innocence he'd ever known fading away in his arms.

Y/N, nearly tearing up, rests a hand on his shoulder.

He flinches at first. Having forgotten she was there with that sorrow and guilt so powerfully overtaking him, he flinched, but then let himself sigh in relief.

"I c-c-can't let it get away with this, more children, more murders. It killed my brother and it killed the kid who lived in my old house last night," It's hushed, because there are more people out than usual with all that's gone on on this street in the last day, but he still says it, he has to, "It has to die."

The parents of the boy, Patrick Sullivan, must not want anyone lingering near their property, no matter the fact that it didn't feel like someone else's house to him at all, so he doesn't plan on staying long. Only long enough to see if the cops missed anything that only the Losers, people who know what preys on the kids in this town, might be able to find.

She meets his gaze and her face is unreadable, which has been something about her he's realized in these past few days that infuriated him. The only two times he could read her expressions were on the porch of Mike's house, when he could tell she lied to him, and when he said what he did in their fight that, rightfully so, made her grow so cold to him. There's this guardedness to her that he can't get around. Even when she's standing with a comforting hand on his shoulder, when he feels like he burns where she touches him, there's a deliberate space she forces between them, despite how much she wants to forgo that distance.

And it's the most confused he's ever felt.  _She_  makes him confused; about how he feels for her, about his feeling for his past, for the future. There's this woman that he knows he's close to, but he doesn't  _really_  know anything at all.

"I'm s-so sorry, Y/N. I-I'm just sorry, I don't know anything that I'm supposed to past a certain point in my life and you w-w-were right. I was upset and angry, like a kid taking their frustration out on someone who doesn't d-deserve it," Bill says.

It feels wrong to talk about this here, so she pulls him along with her, that hand that was practically burning a hole through his shirt sliding down to grab him by the hand, and walks until they're standing at the corner of Jackson and Witcham.

Her hand is still holding his when she finally stops and turns to meet him face to face and it feels like his heart can't take the feeling of their hands touching. He's had lovers since her and yet she's still the only one who's made him feel so...alive. In that shell of a memory he has and in this moment, he can feel the void she left in him when they parted. If only for a moment, he understands that fleeting feeling he'd been having for the last eleven years. Of something missing from his life. Even if he doesn't put two and two together, he feels that gaping crack in his heart lessen. It's only when she lets go of him that it returns.

"I'm sorry too."

He opens his mouth to object, but she silences him.

"What you said hurt, but you were right too. When you said I was being a hypocrite, you weren't wrong," Y/N says, huffing our a sharp exhale and letting herself lean back against the brick wall of the Rite-Aid Pharmacy, "If I'm allowed to hide things and not be upfront with you, you should be to. I shouldn't get to pick and choose what standard to hold you to when I can't even hold myself to it. It's unfair."

"But what I s-s-suh-said-"

There's a brief moment when the sun is shining down on her and, from her side, he sees her haloed like an angel in that warm, comforting light. He has to stop at that. At the word on the tip of his tongue, the thread of a memory that he grasps desperately and begins to tug on.

It's such a soft mumble that she almost doesn't hear it, but she does, "Like an angel..."

" _Y-Y-You're a fucking angel,_ " he'd said it a long time ago, in the house they'd been standing in front of only half a minute ago, and that day becomes as clear as day in the back of his mind. His face is red at the thought of it. They were in his basement and she had just-he shakes his head as if that would clear the full force of that memory from his head-he was still panting for breath when he stopped kissing her to say that.

"I called you an angel once, didn't I?" Bill asks, suddenly snapping out of it and looking down at her again.

And, at that, she crumbles on the inside. ( _Yes! You did! You said I was your savior too and I haven't stopped hearing you say it for eleven years straight!_  A part of her rejoices at his question with joy and an overwhelming wave of relief at those memories coming back to him). The rest of her isn't as happy as it is nervous. What does he remember? How much does he remember? All things that tie into Warner and how much she should give away. She doesn't let herself rejoice in that joy for any longer than that fraction of a second following his words that she let herself react to them and, instead, locks that bit of knowledge deep inside. He remembers up to that point, the weekend that they spent together alone in his house fresh after graduating High School, that's how far it's gone. Not far enough to remember their marriage or Seattle or Warner.

And it makes her heart ache, the fact that she promised herself to keep their son a secret and part ways at the end of the week without the intention of ever seeing this man again.

Because he loved his child so deeply. He loved him with all of the love he hadn't gotten and more and because of that, she can barely keep it together. There's so much he doesn't know and right now, she's envious of that. That blissful ignorance that grants him the ability to smile and not cry when he sees a mother with her baby at the grocery store or walking down the sidewalk. She assumes he's lucky for not having to bear the weight that staring blankly at the empty side of her bed puts on her shoulders every night.

 _It would only cause more pain on all fronts_ , she reminds herself,  _to bring him into Warner's life so late._  Neither of them remembers one another and for the last decade Bill has not even realized he's had a son or wife due to the fog clouding his mind that only a creature of that kind of supernatural horror could cause.

She forces the words out through it all, "You remember that? It came across like you didn't remember anything at the diner yesterday."

He tries to keep the flush from his face. It's not the kind of thing he expected to be one of his first memories of their later years and he's failing at not letting his reaction reach his face. There was so much emotion behind that memory, he doesn't know how to sort through it all.

"W-W-Well, I didn't, but I remember some. From when we were r-really young and now this is, I-" He pauses, remembering himself, I didn't m-mean to deflect the conversation. Now probably isn't the time to reminisce about anything considering what we're here for, I'm s-s-s-so-"

"Don't be," Her voice is much softer with him than it has been this whole time they've been back.

The eye contact they make makes her want to squirm with how overwhelmed his attention solely being on her makes her feel.

She quickly amends, "It messed with our heads and made us forget, don't be sorry for needing a moment when you finally remember something it took from you. You apologized, I accepted. We both said things we regret. There's nothing more to it," a shaking exhale, "is there?"

There's a moment where the distance between them goes taut and he's staring into her eyes, his mouth shut firmly.

God, how quickly is she able to force that space between them back into place again? For a second there, he thought they'd gotten somewhere and now she's back to her usual self. Cold and looking anywhere but at him.

So he shakes his head, offering a no as confirmation, before she steps away from that wall again.

On the inside, she's screaming. Her heart is pounding against her chest so rapidly it's worrying her and there's nothing but fear lacing every inch of her body. She has to shove her hands into her pockets anxiously.

That's when it catches her eyes.

The sight of it halts all other feelings and slows her heartbeat into a steady, lulling beat until she's walking carefully toward it.

"W-What are you-"

"Look!" She whisper-shouts at him, throwing out her arm in front of her to point at it.

Fluttering gently along the columns of grey metal, a torn piece of a shirt sleeve is caught on the edge of a sewer grate. But it's not any sewer grate, it's the one where Georgie met his end.

Bill and Y/N stalk carefully across the street, the conversation suddenly dropped and unimportant in the wake of what It left behind of it's latest victim. Patrick was last seen by his older sister, Rowan, wearing his favorite pajama shirt to bed. When the police had been scouring the street top to bottom before morning onto the next one for any signs of the boy, it had been hidden from view, but there's a breeze running along the pavement. It's making it stand up in the wind.

He kneels down to the ground to take it from where it snagged onto a jagged, broken piece on the underside of the grate.

The way he says it makes her want to put a hand on his shoulder again, but she doesn't.

"This must have torn off when it dragged him in..."

It's a while before she works up the nerve to say what she knows must be addressed, knowing it'll hurt when it's said aloud to him. Light shining down through the leaves of the treetops far above them illuminated the patterned piece of fabric as he stands and holds it out between them.

There's blood on it. A few drops, but blood all the same. Her face hardens.

"You do know that this isn't a coincidence, right? The child it chose to attack, the house he happened to live in, and the storm drain it pulled him down?" She says and stares in blind anger down into the grate.

It's a story they've heard-no,  _lived_ -before. There's no way they can let this go on. There will only be hundreds of more Georgies and Patrick's the longer It goes unpunished. For god sakes, the boy was swiped right from his back patio without a trace other than this scrap of clothing. Kids being hunted down in the night as prey to an insatiable beast, all complaints and pleas falling on the deaf ears of all the adults in town. It's happened before. Many times. And if they don't stop it, nothing will.

"It's still after us," Bill thinks out loud, "Even in this way, by killing the little kid who l-lived in my house, it's trying to get to me, isn't it? It's trying to scare me or bait me. Which one it is, I wouldn't k-knuh-know."

Little does he know how right that is. It's always been after him. From the beginning, from the moment he and Richie escaped from it's clutches at Neibolt, it wanted him gone. The Losers are the only ones who've ever come close enough to getting rid of it forever and seeing him as their leader, it knows he must be the strongest threat. It knows that he must not go after him directly, but instead go after what makes him vulnerable. So, what is it that will make the strong, brave leader go shrill and shaking with fear?

It, always watching, always listening, has its bets on the boy, but the friends are always another option though much more difficult, considering that they're glued to each other more often than not.

Y/N takes the piece of cloth from him and carefully folds it, placing it deep in her pant's back pocket.

"Let's go find Mike and the others, they'll want to see this," She says and takes him by the hand again, ignoring that voice in the back of her head yelling at her to keep that space between them, to hurry off around the corner to Jackson street.

-

Warner's acquaintances are strange.

He's in no way one to call another person out on being a loser, having been called that himself multiple times growing up considering the stutter and birthmark that spreads across the skin beneath his right eye, but they aren't exactly what you'd call normal. They began to explain to him shortly after leaving Jack's house, the mysterious place with the room he'd woken up in after passing out, that they've been investigating these strings of child murders ever since the pattern of them became apparent to them a few months ago. And after what he'd experienced in that house, with that creature, he's sure they're mad for even thinking about pursuing it.

He's sat on the back of Jack's bike, holding on for dear life as he and Alexis pedal dangerously fast from road to road they travel.

They come to a stop though at a house in the center of Witcham street, letting their bikes fall haphazardly around the front yard before running up the front porch.

"Rowan!" Alexis yells, pounding a closed fist on the front door.

None of them had heard of the recent news. Of a boy gone missing in the middle of the night. The Sullivan boy, the little brother of Rowan Sullivan. So it's a surprise to see her open the door with a tear-stained face and red eyes, sniffling as if she'd just been crying.

His face falls at the sight of the young girl, at the sadness lingering so clearly in her face, and he almost forgets that he too is in a state of distress, battered and bruised and cut all over, at the sight of her own shocked gaze when her eyes land upon him.

"Jesus, what happened to him?" Rowan asks.

But before Alexis or Jack can answer their friend, Warner steps forward.

"Are you okay? Y-Y-You look like you've just seen a ghost."

And that brings her back to that horrifying reality she's living in, away from the shock of seeing the strange boy that rescued her friends, and back into the pit of grief she fears might swallow her whole. A missing brother. Though, with her knowledge on Derry and its history of children gone "missing", she knows he's gone forever.

The summer air makes his bandages feel looser because of the sweat starting to drip from his every pore, but he smoothes them back into place every few seconds and keeps his gaze locked into her.

"I-I, you guys should get inside, we have a lot to talk about and judging by the way you're acting, you probably haven't heard the news," is all she leaves them with before striding back into the house.

He follows his new friends closely, unsure of his place in this group, and opts for staying towards the back of the small group of kids making their way through this house.

It's a lovely little home. It's decorated with old, ornate rugs along the hardwood floor, a piano resting in the center of a room they pass by, and he glances at every one of the photos hanging on the walls that lead up the staircase to the second floor. For some strange reason, he feels at home in this house. It has a sense of familiarity.

She leads them to a bedroom at the end of the hall that he can only assume is her's based on the posters plastering the walls and the fact that the moment the others walk through the doorway, they make themselves right at home on her bed. All he's left to is stand awkwardly, hands in his pockets, in the center of the room while they all look at Rowan for an explanation.

"I think..." Her voice is feeble with each word, "I think the Shifter got Patrick."

The room is dead silent.

A monster, something of another dimension, that preys on the fears of children. That's what they told him the Shifter was on the ride over here.

"W-W-Who's Patrick? Is he another friend of y-your's?" Warner asks Alexis, who's leaning against the desk pushed up against the windows at the end of the room, and moves across the floor to her.

"He's my brother...or he  _was_  my brother, I guess," She continues on sadly.

Jack attempts to offer up some words of comfort, "You can't know that he's gone already-" but she isn't having it.

"We've seen it happen before, guys!" A shake of the head, a heavy sigh, and then she's going on and on with anguish beginning to peek through every word, "You and I all know it happens every twenty-seven years, history proves that and it also proves that none of the missing kids ever are found again. And we know why that is, right?"

Another heart-wrenching bout of silence falls over the bedroom and fills every space between them all with tension.

It's Alexis who answers, swallowing back the lump in her throat before she speaks, "Because they were killed..."

Every twenty-seven years? They cannot possibly mean to tell me that that demon-spider fucker comes out of hibernation every twenty-seven years to eat children? He grips the corner of the worn wooden desk he's leaned on tightly for support. In the place his mother grew up, where her childhood friends grew up, there's a thing that feeds off the fears of children and then goes into hibernation for nearly thirty years like clockwork? It can't be real. There's no way, he refuses to believe that anything that sick and twisted could exist and go unreported for so long. Something of this nature surely would have made national news by now.

His head drops slightly, eyes focused on the floor rather than having to face the upsetting reality of the situation. Had someone told him a few days ago that he'd be smack-dab in the center of a fight against an inter-dimensional shapeshifting monster, he probably would've told them to fuck off.

Ever since setting foot onto the land of this hellhole, he's been challenged at every turn. It had begun with the realization he had back home, holding that book between his hands in awe, and it brought him on this road. To this bedroom that he doesn't even realize is the old bedroom of his father, the father he suspects is his, but would rather die than admit it. Because what had the bastard ever done for him and his mom? Left them to struggle on their own? Left him to spend his whole adolescence chasing after the ghost of a paternal figure that would never and had never been there? He'd been wrong. About wanting to find out who the man was, that was a naive hope. If he wanted him, he would have been there and that's the sad truth he's going to have to accept.

But these kids...there's something about them and him coming here at the time having a certain significance. There's something about this town, these kids, everything from the green colors of summer bursting from every corner of the town to the buzzing, lively energy that surrounds it.

He's here for a reason.

"So, how do we kill it?"

The others stop their conversation that had continued on without him, details of when and how he'd disappeared that they needed to know, and turn to look at the mysterious boy who'd ridden into town on a bus and run straight into the face of danger to safe two strangers without question.

What an enigma he is to them. A stranger, essentially, whose only connection to their lives is the same evil that had terrorized their town for far too long. Who is he? Why is he here? Why haven't they seen him before? They don't even know his last name, let alone anything more specific than a name.

But he raises his chin up high, black eye, bruises cuts and all, and asks again, "H-H-Huh-How do we kill the thing that killed her brother?"

Jack laughs, clearly amused amid all of the chaos and grief, "If we knew how to kill it, it would be dead."

But his eyes are fixed on the newest acquaintance, the girl with red-rimmed eyes and a tear-stained face, who's looking right back at him with a face of solid stone.

The space between them is tense and he isn't sure what to do other than hold onto the desk a little bit harder. If he's going to have to stay with them until his mom inevitably finds out he's not where he's supposed to be, then he might as well make the little time he does have before then useful. She calls to check in on him once a day, sends a few texts too, and thankfully for him, the call she made on the day he passed out was when he was still on the bus. Any later and him not answering would've alerted her of something being amiss.

Rowan, with her jaw clenched and eyes staring harshly into him, says, "I've been studying Derry's history at the library for the last six months obsessively and there's also..." She shakes her head, "How do I know you can be trusted? I don't even know your name and the only reason you're here is because you collapsed after running out of the Creep House and needed our help."

He scoffs and takes a step forward.

" _Me_ , needing  _your_  help? Only after I saved their asses from "disappearing" and had to j-j-j-jump out the window to escape. If that d-doesn't earn me your trust, I don't know what will."

"You sure as hell needed my help when I patched your sorry ass up and gave you my sweater. I still don't even know your name-"

"Warner Denbrough. Is that what you wanted? You want my address and date of birth too?"

He realizes his mistake as soon as his last name leaves his mouth.

The three kids all move back from him slightly and he has to wipe his hands on his pant legs to get rid of the sweat there. Her arms cross over her chest.

"Your last name is Denbrough? Like, as in George Denbrough? The Denbrough's who lived in this house before us?" Rowan asks, eyes wide with shock.

All that does is make him want to bury his face into his hands. His fate is sealed and this is nearly it, he doesn't want to believe what's right in front of him, but it's making an overwhelmingly clear case that cannot be ignored.

A thirty-nine-year-old Derry native who went up at the same time as his mother and happens to share his last name as well as the last name of the family who lived here before this family...the name on the flashlight, the slip of paper with his name and number in his mom's copy of his book...he still can't let himself think it, let alone say it.

He shifts uncomfortably under their searching eyes and offers, "It's k-k-kind of a complicated s-story."

"We have time. If you're a Denbrough...let's just say there's a lot of history you might not know about," Her head tilts to the side in curiosity, "Are you from here? I thought Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough died years ago, that's when my parents moved us here," She continues, pressing him for more.

"No, I don't live here, I'm from P-P-P-Philly."

Well, he grew up in Philly and went to school there until second grade when they moved into the suburbs, but whenever someone asks he just says he's from the city. It's easier. 

Everything inside of him feels like it's caving in on itself. Would that mean his grandparents lived here? That, when he was a kid, his-he stops himself from letting that word reach his mind-Bill lived here? What if his mom had been in this room before? Since they were friends from such a young age she probably has been-

Warner almost audibly gasps. And that's when it hits him.

"Twenty-seven years," He whispers.

Twenty-seven years ago, Bill and his mom were thirteen-year-olds. They were his age, the age of all four kids standing in his childhood bedroom. If the Shifter targets kids, if it targeted and killed Georgie, his uncle, then it could have been after them too. If so, his mom has been keeping a dark, horrific secret from him his entire life.

The others are staring at him with confusion written across their faces, not sure whether or not he just had an episode of some kind or if he's just always this weird.

Nevertheless, they watch as he pushes off the desk and steps up to the space of floor in front of them, his eyes fixed on the girl he knows knows the most about the history of Derry out of everyone here.

"Does the name William Denbrough mean anything to you? He goes by Bill and I think-" He exhales sharply, "Did George have a brother?"

"Uh, you mean the author? Yeah, of course he lived here. His books are in the front window display of every book store in the county and his brother's death is one of the worst ones Derry has seen and that's saying something."

That's when it all clicks for Alexis too; the flashlight she found on him, his reaction to her calling him by that name, all of it. That was why she felt like she'd been missing something back at the house. Somewhere deep down she remembered hearing his last name and it was with Rowan. Because she uncovered some things the last owners left behind and the same name on the flashlight was signed on notebooks and photographs that were shoved in the top corner of her closet's shelf.

She takes a step closer to the boy, her eyes soft with sympathy, nothing but clear understanding there.

Alexis says, "He's-Bill Denbrough's your father, isn't he? That's why you have his flashlight and you said his name in your sleep. He's your dad," Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to find words, "You're so far from home and your parents clearly haven't been looking for you..."

It's a quick and impulsive decision, not one he's used to making or that he likes to, but something came over him in these last few days. Bravery unlike anything he's ever felt before, confidence he hasn't felt in ages. He's never felt so alive, even with such horrors going on around him.

It's the decision to lay it all out in front of him, all of his cards on the table for these new acquaintances to see for themselves.

His heart is beating so fast when he speaks.

"I ran away."

"You  _what_?" All three of them shout at once.

Warner whips around to grab the book from his backpack, his movement frantic as he yanks it from the depths of his backpack filled with various clothes and items he deemed necessary for his trip up the coast.

"I know I probably sound ins-s-sane right now and I get that, b-b-but last week my mom came home late and said she had to go to a friend's funeral in Derry. B-But after she left I found this," He holds it out for them to see, "And there was a slip of paper with the author's name and n-number on it. It only lead to here; his b-b-b-birthplace is here, his age is the same as my mom's, and his last name is mine. I never knew who my father was, but I followed her here to find o-out."

The room is wreathed in utter stillness. All of them are awed by the story coming from this kid who came bursting into their lives like a living, breathing explosion. The last six months had been wild enough, but now it's beginning to feel a bit too crazy to be true.

A runaway and a grieving sister stare one another down, waiting for the other to make the first move after that hell of a confession.

There's nothing Alexis and Jack can do but watch them in shock.

He stands tall, hands fiddling with the sleeves of the sweater he was given by the three friends, and shrugs, as if to say  _"that's all I've got, now show me what you've got."_

And so Rowan marches across the bedroom to where she keeps those withered notebooks, the photographs, all of the forgotten pieces to the past, and then drops them onto her bed with a harsh thump.

Her eyes are shadowed with a certain hollow darkness when she says, her body entirely still, "In his notebooks, he called it The Ritual of Chüd."

-

By the time they gather all of the Losers together at Mike's, darkness has fallen over Derry.

With another kid missing and the town falling into chaos with police searching, other adults turning a blind eye, and kids fearing for their safety, all they can do is watch history repeat itself as it always does.

The Losers are sat around the living room as they had been the first night here, except this time there is no happiness to be found in the room. All that's left is bitter resentment and, for the first time years, true fear. For years they avoided the fact that they'd have to come back here and at a certain point, forgot that they made the promise to. In Seatle, they were beginning to get a sense of how life is supposed to be. Not ruled by trauma or fear or anything other than what they wanted it to be. But then things went south and at the thought of that, Y/N frowns.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. They were supposed to be happy and safe. Yet somewhere deep inside, she knows this is how it was always meant to be. It didn't want them to remember each other. So all she can do is help them kill it and then never look back, take her son with her. Today, with Bill, it was almost as if they were getting somewhere. It felt like it always did before, when they lived here and after, when talking to and loving one another was easier than breathing. Just thinking of that time when nothing stood between them is enough to make her tense. Because life was the brightest it had ever been, until one day the color was leeched from her world and all she was left with were shades black and white.

Every time her eyes fall upon the man who she'd once meant everything to, her heart breaks for what could have been. For the dreams in which he visited her all these years, for the son he doesn't know, for her poor, broken soul that lost its way when she lost him. When you spent your entire life with someone their company becomes something to expect and she didn't know to savor her time with him until it was too late

Her head is rested on Eddie's shoulder, his arm tucked around her waist to hold her there in comfort and in need of comfort himself. What he and Richie found at the Barrens today...

It wasn't a pretty sight, in fact, it made their stomach twist and turn in disgust.

"Now that everyone's here," Bill says, standing up from where he'd been sitting on her other side, and looks down at her, "Y/N and I f-f-found something outside his house."

Their eye contact makes him feel the urge to look away to diffuse the tension there, but he keeps his eyes locked on her. Soft fingertips brush his hand when she dips into the back pocket of her pants to grab the piece of cloth and gives it to him, the touch almost electrifying.

His face hardens when he looks away from her, that sweet softness that always crosses him when she's near disappears, and he holds it up.

"We f-found this caught on the storm drain where G-G-Guh-Georgie was killed, it has blood on it."

Beverly shudders and clutches Ben's hand so tightly her knuckles go white. All this does is confirm their fears.

All of them had known that the Sullivan boy hadn't only been "missing", previous experience alone ruled any chance of his parents seeing him again out, but seeing evidence of it makes every single one of their hearts ache with grief for the children lost to the monster that ruined their lives. It seems that no child stands a chance in Derry, on a year like this, not unless they're anything like they were. With the adults of this town under It's control, they're the only thing in the way of its malicious plans.

Y/N's head rises from where it had been rested on Eddie's shoulder to say, "He lived in Bill's old house, guys..."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Richie curses and runs a hand through his hair, but nobody else utters a word, "I think it's trying to get your attention, Bill."

He's reaching down into his pockets, searching, and then pulls out a piece of paper. It's not too large or too small, only big enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but he holds it carefully. As if it were a gun or a knife, outstretching it in front of him to show to Bill.

The hand he takes the picture from him with trembles upon the sight of such an old ghost in his life and there's an audible sound of anguish escaping the back of his throat that the entire room holds their breath at.  _Please don't be what I think it is_ , she thinks,  _he doesn't need any more pain or grief._  They all patiently wait for him. They all give him time, because they all have a feeling and Richie and Eddie know what it is, found it laying upon the spot where they'd made their promise twenty-seven years ago. Found it right in the spot that Bill and Y/N had been arguing the other day, only they were too distracted with one another to see it there.

A gift it left just for him.

And he looks utterly gone when he turns to hand it off to Beverly, saying, "It's Georgie's picture. The one that winked at me."

The couch dips back down where he sits beside her again.

As the picture is being passed around, his hand slips into her's, holding hard.

It makes her freeze at first.

And the return of his touch, the warmth of his hand in her's again, makes her want to weep because she knows that by the time the week has passed, she'll never feel that again.

She squeezes his hand back.

This is when she decides she's done; done letting this sick, sadistic bastard have control over their lives any longer. It  _ruined_  her. It murders all of the good and pure from the world without a moment's hesitation. It took her family apart piece by piece and made them forget everything. It killed her little brother-in-law and scared her love for the rest of his life, which lead to the cruel neglect he experienced for far too long, and if he were here, it would be trying to do the same to their son. What more must it do before people open their eyes and if nobody else will, then why not them?

For the next long few minutes, she sits with her hand in his and runs a hand up and down his arm comfortingly, those thoughts swirling in her head relentlessly.

Bill relaxes into the touch and a part of him, delicate and needing, yields to the joyous feeling of her holding him. How tired he's grown of this endless battle within himself. Between the memories, the guilt, and It, there's the fighting, brave spirit in him that's beginning to wear thin. The sad reality is that he isn't sure he can keep going for much longer. He has nothing, no one other than these five people who were erased from his life and they have their lives without him. They have places to go and people to love and he has nothing but himself. How long can he continue this lonely existence he's been living? Because now that he's beginning to remember what he once had with his friends-his only real family-the life he's made for himself back home isn't one he looks forward to returning to.

For years, he lived without knowing of their existence. And every so often, he would be writing and a character would begin to remind him of a person he knew once a long time ago. But they were always too far away, hidden behind the murky veil that was laid over his memories.

Then the picture lands in her lap and little George is staring up at her with those wide eyes. He hadn't known that only a few days following this photograph, he would disappear into a storm and never return.

Never again.

Y/N stands up, letting go of Bill's hand.

"This thing is still after us," She says and looks around the room at all of her friends, "No matter how much time passes, it's always  _going_  to be after us because we pissed it off."

They all look to her, so tired and worn out from everything they've been put through, but they hang onto her words desperately.

"We know how to defeat it, don't we? What's stopping us from getting to it before it comes to us? All it does is slaughter our children and traumatized the few who survive It's torture for the rest of their lives. We came the closest anyone's come to killing it forever," a hand waved in Bill's direction, "It hates him because when he went to that other place to fight him, during the Ritual, he was the first person or  _anything_  to make it feel fear. He was only thirteen when he weakened it enough for us to send it back and was one boy. There's seven of us. Without Stan we might be weaker but...we have to do this."

At that, the others give a nod, and Ben asks, "When?"

What would be the best time to send themselves into possible death? How does one decide?

Standing in the center of the room, every set of eyes on her, she thinks it over. The more time they take to kill it, the more children will suffer because of it, and that isn't a chance she's willing to take. Her head falls slightly and she looks down at the picture in her hands. It's so easy to remember the day this boy died. The sound of his screams, his brother calling out for his mom, and the sight of Bill kneeling on the porch to his house with dead little Georgie wrapped up in a quilt in his arms. His head was cradled to his chest as his brother bellowed out for their mom, gently being rocked back and forth as his lifeless eyes stared out into the distance of the rain and wind in the direction of where his killer dwelled in the skin of a man. A man standing at the corner of Jackson and Witcham with a wicked grin stretching across his face at the sight of such horrors. She gets lost in that sunken place. In the memory of his worst nightmares.

But it's Bill who stands up from the couch and is next to her faster than she can blink, the flat palm of his hand warm through the shirt covering the small of her back. The touch makes her want to shut her eyes and lean into his side and she has no idea how much he'd like that too, but she doesn't.

"I-I-I-If it were my son," He says and she  _flinches_  at that, "I-If it were my son that went missing, I'd want us to go after it right now. She's right. We have to do this before any other kids die. So, we'll go tomorrow."

And this reminds her of the time they promised to come back for that son.  _For Warner_ , they'd said.

She nods even if he doesn't know what it's for; for Warner indeed.

-

Rowan's bedroom had notebooks, papers, drawings, and photographs spread across every open space available once they began.

Most of what they went over all together was the stuff recorded about the Shifter or, as they realized they used to call it when they were younger, "It". And hearing that, reading it with his own two eyes, was an experience. Half of the things written down are hardly believable and seem like fantasies you could blame on the overactive childhood imagination of an author-to-be, but they know in their hearts that it's the truth. How could they doubt it when they've encountered it themselves?

Having been the one to find these last month, Rowan was the one who knew most of what he'd written by heart. The others were well-versed from listening to her talk about it, but she had studied these books like religion. Which brought them to the strangest thing he's ever heard of; The Ritual of Chüd.

According to the notebooks, it's a battle of the mind.

A boy who he'd been friends with, who went by the name of Ben, proposed it to them and when they ventured down into the depths of the sewer system beneath the town of Derry, Bill Denbrough used it to defeat it. (Though he was told by his new friends that he didn't actually kill it, yet cast it away into the other dimension where It and the Turtle dwell).

Alexis and Jack left an hour ago, saying that their parents were strict on the curfew that was set for everyone in town as the murders began to happen again, which left him alone in his family's old house with the girl. They agreed to pass him from house to house each night he stays here, tonight being the night he crashes at her place. Her parents are asleep downstairs, so here was the best option. This gives him more time to read through these journals anyway and he can't tear himself away from them. It's hard to put them down to drink from the water glass she gave him or even to walk down the hallway from this room to use the bathroom. After thirteen years without a clue of who his father was or what he was like, without a hint of his mothers' past, these journals are a memoir to their youth.

He's sat with his legs crossed and his back pressed up against the headboard of the bed, notebooks and photos scattered everywhere where they aren't sitting while Rowan is scanning through every picture with wild excitement lining her features.

There's a brief moment that he tears his eyes from the handwritten pages and looks up at her, studying the girl carefully.

She and Jack look fairly similar. They're both blonde, although her's is more of a dirty blond and her hair is thicker, and they have freckles covering their faces. Her freckles continue down her arms though, his don't. If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed him to be her brother rather than the missing boy.

Rowan was visibly upset when they came by and though he can't see it, is silently suffering for the fate of the little boy. But it appears differently than he supposed most people's mourning would. Her's appears in obsessing over the creature and the way to kill it. Her's appears in distracting from the loss by throwing herself into this history and studying it with full force. And now there's a side of her that can connect with these stories in a way she hadn't before. The guilt he feels that leaps off the page, the sorrow, it's all to familiar to her in the last harrowing twenty-four hours. But she shakes her head. _Not now, I need to kill it first then_...then she can afford to fall apart, but not yet, dammit.

"These are insane!" She exclaims and snatches up one of the earliest journals, the one detailing their venture into the cistern, "He went into a different dimension, Warner! It is the evil and the Turtle is some kind of godly figure, I guess? The balance to how awful the Shifter is, maybe," A pause and then, "I still can't make sense of the Ritual though, about how it begins...all he says is that he walked up to it and looked directly into its eyes. How is that anything like what his friend told him the Ritual is supposed to be like? He said he looked into the lights and it transported him to the other place. Didn't it have something to do with sticking out your tongue?"

He finishes for her in an annoyed voice after having read it over and heard her speak it about a billion times and oversimplifies it for the sake of his own sanity, "S-Stick out your tongue and then It sticks its tongue out too, both b-b-b-bite down, and tell jokes. Whoever laughs first loses. But that wasn't what h-happened when he did it."

She huffs, frustrated, and shuts the notebook on the mattress.

There's a reason he's moved on to the later books, you can only reread the same pages over and over again before you begin to go mad. He had to take a break and it ended up leading him to the notebooks that were about his teen years following the summer.

It's hard to get through at parts, because of the sheer amount of suffering this poor kid went through. There's an overwhelming amount of self-doubt and insecurity flowing through every word of these, no doubt having been fueled by his parents' negligence and the speech impediment that made him downright sick to his stomach whenever he had to speak.

That was a whole other thing...the stutter.

He had wondered for a long while, when he realized that his mom, nor anyone else in his family that he knew of, didn't stutter, if it might have been the other side of his family. When he stumbled upon the first entry that mentioned his speech impediment, it hammered the nail into the coffin. But still, he shoves himself deeper into that denial. He never had a paternal figure and never will, that was the end of that. But it made him tense, reading those words that reflected how he feels all of the time. Never has he felt so represented and understood. Was Bill why his mother knew how to handle him and his feelings surrounding his stutter so well? It always baffled him how scarcely she ever misstepped when it came to his disability, but he always figured she simply did research and listened when he did rarely speak about what helps and what doesn't. Perhaps it had been growing up beside Bill that helped her with him.

There are happier bits, though. Brighter ones filled with friendship and camaraderie. Then there was the romance.

His mom only talked about him once and it was the story about him defending her from a bully. Not once did she mention that they were together since they were thirteen when she told that story to a seven-year-old Warner. But the way he talks about her, it makes him stop and nearly warm up to the idea of Bill Denbrough a little bit. He talks about her like she's the world to him, which she no doubt had been, and seeing that he loved his mom that much is enough for him to keep reading.

Big Bill, as this Richie character he writes about quite frequently calls him, reminds him so much of himself.  _No shit_ , he sneers in his head.

"Have you seen all of the pictures?"

The sound of Rowan's lilting voice pulls him from the journals.

She's looking over at him with upraised eyebrows, the first genuine smile he's ever seen her make beginning to cross her face. Her hair falls over her shoulders in smooth, thick tresses that cut off above her chest and he wants to run a hand through it. It looks soft. But he ignores that urge and leans over to see what she's taken him away from the notebooks to look at.

The photographs are all laid out side by side, in chronological order courtesy of the girl sitting on her knees beside him, and it's as if he's watching time pass by as he glances from one to the next. He's seen most of them, but she's pointing to one he hasn't before.

"Your parents were really in love, I think," Rowan says.

Her electric pink neatly painted fingernail stands out sharply against the picture, but once he turns his attention to it he cannot possibly make himself turn from it.

What is the physical manifestation of the word love? Of joy? By the looks of it, it's this photograph. No matter how hard it is to accept the sight of this, this answer to the question he's been asking his whole life being laid out in front of him, the beauty of the image is undeniable. It'd be enviable to most on all fronts. His mom, though as her son he thinks she's a generally pretty person, is radiant here. There's a glow to her that he can't begin to describe, her head cradled into his shoulder while she looks up at him lovingly, one of her arms out to take the picture. And Bill's looking down at her in that same way he felt as he talked about her in the journals; it looks as if she's his reason for breathing he's so obviously in love with her.

Then there's the next, which is one that someone else clearly took of them rather than one they took. They're sitting at the edge of a body of water, the color a vibrant blue-green that stands out beautifully against them sitting in the foreground, and he smiles at it. Before he can control himself, he smiles.

Y/N's sitting, both of them in bathing suits, with her legs outstretched over his lap while she's laughing at the camera (or perhaps whoever was behind it) and he's sat with one hand on the ground behind him to support himself and one interlaced with her's.

"S-S-S-She's never looked that happy before..." He murmurs, unsure of how to internalize that.

Rowan pats his shoulder sympathetically, that smile of genuine secondhand happiness from the pictures fading at the boy's confession. They talked for a while, all four of them, about his life. About how he's never known of this place or his mom's past until now, so she has a good guess as to why it is she's been so unhappy for all the time he's known her.

It's not that he didn't bring her enough joy, because he knows he does. It's only that, for his whole life, he's known he has a depressed mother. She pushes through it for him and copes unlike anything he's ever seen before which is yet another reason why he loves her so much, but he never missed it.

"They loved each other, a lot," She says.

He swallows hard and looks up from the spread of books and photos to where she's looking over at him.

"Yeah, I know. The journals m-m-make that incredibly obvious."

It takes her a lot to rally up the courage to ask what's been on the tip of her tongue this whole night.

"I'm sorry if I cross a line here, since we just met, but do you want him to be in your life?"

Something about this situation, the idea of Bill abandoning them, doesn't sit right with her. It doesn't seem like that would be the actions of the person who wrote in these notebooks for pages and pages about their love and their lives growing up together. Maybe she's only being naive and hopeful for the sake of the kid she first saw unconscious in Jack's house, battered and bruised from his fight with the Shifter, but after a month of pouring over these that doesn't sound like him. It doesn't sound like him at all.

Warner tenses, his chest tightening at the thoughts that question rises in the depths of his mind. He immediately attempts to stuff them far down, to avoid and deny.

"No," He shrugs, plain and simple, "The a-a-ah-asshole made it clear he never wanted me in his life so why should I want him in mine? Wishful thinking is a w-waste of time."

The words left unsaid linger in the back of his mind.  _Especially for someone as unloveable as me. Look at me, I'm a mess, no wonder he wasn't there. He probably took one look at my ugly face and ran for the hills._  But that's too much, she wouldn't want to hear him talk about it anyway.

What he said makes her heart ache for him though, for the hopelessness in his words. In a way, she understands, but otherwise? He is his father. His mom or Bill never confirmed it to him, but with all the evidence he has, she knows: he's for sure his father. None of it makes sense to her, but if he doesn't want her to she can't push or give her unsolicited opinion, notebooks she found or not, it's his business.

But still, that voice in the back of her head wants to and it wants to help him.

She asks before she can stop herself, "You don't...you don't blame yourself do you?"

Instantly, it's clear she's pushed too far because he turns, looks at her, and says quickly, "I don't wanna l-luh-look at these anymore."

The bed shifts with his weight leaving the mattress to walk around the other side to where the makeshift bed she made his is laid out, piles of pillows and blankets just on the floor beside where she'll be sleeping above, and she wants to curse at herself. A line was crossed, that much is apparent, and the last thing this kid needs is to feel upset.

His black eye isn't swollen anymore, but he looks like absolute shit and cuts are littered all over his body from when he'd thrown himself out the window. Not to mention the emotional turmoil he's been put through in coming here, with It and the prospect of his absent father? He's already a mess.

It's hard for her to keep from pushing, from apologizing and begging him to keep distracting her from the emotion that's shoved down inside of her so deeply and begging to be let out. But there's nothing to do other than to comply with his wishes.

He lays silent on the floor while she cleans off her bed, staring at where his back is turned to her, and they both go to sleep with that remaining tension eating away at them.

And in the night, another child is taken.

-

For the duration of the morning, Warner is quiet.

Perhaps it's the glum feel of the hot summer day, with clouds beginning to converge over Derry and the humidity leeching the sweat from his skin. Or maybe it's the notebooks he's been reading and rereading all night and morning. Either way, he doesn't speak a word.

Sometimes he's like this, although usually from being so embarrassed by his speech impediment that he refuses to speak at all, reserved and stuck somewhere within himself. But the other can see the solemn trance he's in, especially Rowan.

She hadn't meant to upset him.

They're strangers and it was none of her business, but when she heard the way he was talking about never wanting his father in his life she couldn't leave it be.

Rowan looks over at where he's sat with his back against the wood log they dragged out here months ago and frowns.

Alexis and Rowan are sitting on the one opposite to where he's sitting, talking about what they read in the notebooks about how to defeat it and the journey the Losers went on years before they existed. They're fascinated by it. By the strength and bravery of the eight kids who descended upon their greatest nightmare like the fierce Spartan warriors of Greece. The picture painted with Bill's words was incredible and as much as he'd never been one for literature-he hates reading and writing in school-he can't help but appreciate the raw talent there. Every word provokes emotion in a way he hadn't experienced before when he was reading. All of the texts and excerpts he had to read in school bored him, they didn't mean anything, but perhaps because of this connection these stories have to him and sheer talent of the writer, he can't stop reading.

Alexis walks across the small circle of flattened grass where the wooden logs are laid down for them, a place where eight kids once all held their bleeding hands together in an oath to come back and kill the monster that made their lives living hell, and sits down cross-legged right up next to Warner. He looks at her with upraised eyebrows, as if to ask her what she's doing, but she smiles at him with that bright, lovely smile, and looks over his shoulder at the open notebook below.

Rowan often found that when Alexis smiled, nobody could feel upset in her presence. That's the only reason why he keeps his mouth closed and stares blankly down at the pages, despite his angst.

"How many times are you going to read this one before you move on to another? Every time I look at you you're picking this back up," She says.

It's the notebook where he was detailing the day they fought the Shifter for the final time. The details of The Ritual of Chüd, of his mother getting brutally cut open by It, and their final showdown with it are all in this one, among other stories from that summer leading up to that fateful night. He always comes back to the Ritual. It's confusing, even with the impressive writing talent for someone of that age and the fact that the person who recorded it experienced it firsthand, he can't fully wrap his head around it. Nevertheless, he has a general grasp of what happened.

Warner flips back to the first of the four pages that talk about the time Bill Denbrough spent in that other dimension and explains, "He w-walked right up to It," the name he's picked up on calling the thing after spending hours reading these, "They locked eyes and he was transported to that p-puh-place, he mentioned being talked to by the Turtle, a creature of good that came from the same place It came from, about how to d-d-d-defeat it."

The voice of the girl sitting across from them continuing the story makes him jump, having forgotten she was there after a whole morning of avoiding her. Her prying question last night went too far for his liking.

"The Ritual of Chüd is a battle of the mind. He states that fear is the only thing the Shifter has on us and that once you overcome your fear, you win."

Their eyes meet across the circle and he feels his stomach tighten within him, feelings he can't place flaring up at that honey-eyed gaze. He looks away, looks over at Alexis instead because Alexis, though beautiful and kind, is a friend. It's like talking to Jack when he talks to her, she's sweet and kind and pretty, but she's just a friend. He doesn't know what Rowan is. Even if it's been mere days, he isn't sure.

His eyes dance back and forth between the pages and Alexis, unsure of what to say since it's already been said.

She goes on for him, "So, all your dad is saying is that the Shifter isn't as powerful as it seems. That once you master it and overcome the battle of will, it doesn't have power over you?"

"Y-Y-Yeah, easier s-said than done, but that's exactly w-what he's saying."

 _I don't have a dad_ , he thinks, but says yes for the sake of not opening that can of worms with them again.

Reading these has been an emotional guide to the past for him. It's almost better this way, learning of who the man is and what he's like through these journals rather than them both meeting face to face with no knowledge of what the other is like. He's glad for it, because it means that if he ever meets him, he'll know more of Bill than he knows of him. The idea of having a leg up on him is more comforting than anything else.

They've been sitting out here all morning, the girls talking and joking around while he all but moped while reading through the words of so many years ago. He's damn near ready to jump into the dirty water of the nearby stream to relieve the heat that's overtaken him from the scorching summer sun beating down on them.

It's conflicting for him; knowing that he still has yet to find out where his mother is in Derry, but he hasn't had the chance to seek her out yet. Soon, but not yet. He knows that a part of it is him realizing that when he sees her, he might meet Bill too, and that scares him more than he wants to admit.

He's still sat with Alexis, pressed close reading while she silently reads with her chin on his shoulder, when the sound of someone yelling breaks through their trance.

They sat there reading like that for fifteen minutes without interruption, not noticing the jealous gaze from across the circle, and he is quite fond of Alexis' friendliness with him. She doesn't  _like him_  like him and he's pretty sure she would be into Jack that way more than she ever would be him, considering their closeness, but yet she's still comfortable around him. He isn't sure if it's the mutual trauma of fighting It together, that sense of camaraderie that only two who've fought evil together side by side can have no matter how little or long of a time they've shared together, but he doesn't care. Usually, being touched by people bugs him out, but he doesn't mind it. He didn't mind it when Jack hugged him goodbye or when she rested her chin on his shoulder. The only person of the three he minds is Rowan. He couldn't stand her touching him, it felt like when the he sits too closely to the fireplace or the blacktop under the bare soles of his feet on a scorching day of summer.

But there's a panicked yell coming from the tree line and then, in a matter of seconds, a boy with blond hair who's covered in freckles shooting out from between the trees and brush.

"Alexis!" He yells out and the girl is up faster than Warner can blink.

There's a pause in the air between when he stops at their hangout spot, hands on knees as he pants in utter exhaustion and when he begins speaking where he and Rowan share a knowing glance.

_The Shifter._

It's almost as if he can hear her voice in his head saying that, so clear and lilting, nearly more so commanding and strong than it is when she speaks it aloud. They step up on either side of Alexis, breaking that stare and ignoring that odd communication they shared by dismissing it as nothing but their imagination.

Jack coughs violently and spits out a mouthful of bloody saliva from his sprint across town, saying between panting breaths, "It got another kid, it-it-it was Olivia McCoy, but there was a body. Her body was mutilated, guys, she was-she was hung from the traffic light at the intersection of Jackson and Main Street."

The blonde haired girl steps forward, her face twisted with rage and grief, to ask, "You  _saw_  her?"

He nods and tries to refrain from throwing up at the memory of it. None of them ask what had been done to the poor girl's body.

The Shifter had appeared to her as a masked, monstrous villain from a movie she watched with her best friend before she left to walk home to her house a few streets over. Her family reminded her to be wary of staying out alone at night, but, like all kids, she wasn't too concerned with the topic of mortality. When you're a kid, you're invincible. If you believe yourself to be strong, you're strong. If you believe yourself to be brave, you're brave. Everything is up to the power of the imagination.

The sight of it stopped her short. At fourteen, a year their senior, the things that scared her weren't as simplistic, but not nearly as complicated to capture as the deepest fears of fully developed human begins. It had studied her all day, in the shadows and the corners as familiar faces and things that wouldn't raise an eyebrow to the young girl. Until it struck, like an asp, with its rope in hand and claws punching out from its paper white knuckles. All that remained where it had brutalized her, cutting her open in ways that took a toll Jack's young sanity at the sight of her there early in the morning, was a red balloon tied around her wrist in the place of where her friendship bracelet had been. That was ripped off in her struggle to get away.

Warner's nose scrunches up in disgust at the news.

Another kid gone from the world, another group of adults (which they found out are unlikely under the control of It from reading the notebooks) turning away, and all they're left with is a body and a red balloon. A waste, that's what this death has been, and it disgusts him. The stories mentioned every name of every child that went missing twenty-seven years ago, among them his late uncle...the emotion with which Bill wrote about how that affected him was heart-wrenching. No matter the animosity he has towards the man, the horrors he endured are like no other he's seen. The only ones that can measure up are that of Rowan's life, with her own loss and experience of coming face to face with the devil itself.

They have to beat the devil.

He turns and zips up his backpack, shoving in everything they'd unpacked haphazardly in a blind spur of impulsivity and anger. If no one else is going to stop it, then it's his job to do so.

"What are you doing?" Rowan asks.

 _It **has** to end_, she hears in her head. When she hears him there, there's no stutter. Strangely enough, she doesn't question his presence there. It feels okay. It feels correct and she doesn't let it trip her up.

The backpack closes with a swift yank of his wrist and he pulls the straps up onto his shoulders, that are now clothed in one of the few clean short-sleeves he packed before hopping on that bus to come to the town that would change him forever. He grips those straps so hard that his hands that are wrapped in white gauze, the skin beneath that was cut open slathered in Neosporin, go as white as the bandage covering them.

He squares his shoulders, straightens his spine, and holds his head with the confidence and bravery of a man. In that moment, he is a man. One very reminiscent of the one sitting in Mike Hanlon's kitchen at this very moment readying with his Losers for what they anticipate will be the battle of a lifetime, their final battle side by side.

Warner's eyes go hard with something none of them have seen reach him before and even they are in awe of the person standing in front of them. They all sense the words before they come out.

"I'm going to that house and I'm murdering that fucker, right now."

Hearing him speak without stuttering is yet another thing that stunned them into silence. The grass is vibrant and the wind flutters the thin blades against the skin of his calves with every slow second he takes to pause, focusing every bit of energy he has into speaking with a clear, strong voice.

"My-" He opens and closes his mouth, still unable to say it, looking down, " _Bill_  left these journals behind, god knows why, but he did and I think we were m-meant to find them. The Ritual of Chüd can send it away, it worked the last time and it can work again. We are the only thing standing between this town and It, we can't fail all of these people by knowing and letting it continue terrorizing their children."

The other three kids are hanging off of every word he says. Usually, nobody wants to listen to him speak. With his stutter and his insecurity, he's never commanded attention. Until now. Something about standing at this very spot, the energy radiating off of this place and the anguish and emotion that fuels his need to track down the Shifter, it changes him. His charisma is intoxicating.

"What about all of the people who died before these kids? The Ironworks, the Blackspot, Georgie Denbrough getting his arm ripped off seconds away from his house, what about justice for them?" His face softens when he looks at Rowan and his voice is the softest it has ever been, "What about Patrick?"

The sound of her trying not to cry makes his heart twist with feelings he doesn't want to acknowledge. Her eyes are welling up with tears and he doesn't let himself break that stare.

"This is bigger than us, I can feel it," He shakes his head, "No, I  _know_  it. It's you and me," And though he's saying it to them all, he's staring at Rowan still with that unwavering blue-eyed gaze that only makes the crying intensify, "That's all that opposes him. So, we can look the other way like everyone else does or we can go marching in there right now and end it all. The journals say we're stronger in numbers...it's up to you."

There's a breeze after a morning filled with stagnant, humid air, there's a sweet breeze that passes over them and it blows the hair back from her shoulders. Tears are still lining her eyes and in her mind, she sees that little boy that had been alive and hugging her only days ago. He didn't share her blond hair or freckles, he had brown hair and smooth, unmarked skin. He smiled a lot more than she ever does. He was everything good and pure in this world and he was taken right from her arms. She sniffles and blinks away those tears.

 _It's you and me_ , that voice is in his mind again and his heart skips a beat at that.

Rowan says, her voice strong and confident in that way he's grown to like, "I'm in."

-

The streets feel empty the closer they get to Neibolt street.

It's as if Derry itself knows what's to come and hides, trembles beneath the force of nature that is Warner Denbrough walking with purpose through its streets with those three friends in tow.

They had agreed immediately and that surprised him.

Most kids their age would have run, but, after all, he had saved their lives in that house from when they went in seeking to hurt the creature. They'd walked in on their own accord once before and they would do it again. It would be a lie for any one of them to say that they aren't afraid. They are. Every single one of them has their fears tucked away somewhere within them, but they know that letting that fear overtake them will be their downfall and they can't afford to let fear control anything.

The trees rustle with the wind, it's beginning to feel less and less hot out with every step they take towards the house and those grey clouds that have been nearing close to the town with every day he's been here are starting to converge overhead. A storm is approaching.

And as they reach the end of Neibolt street, he clenches his jaw.

There it is.

The Creep House stands tall above them, a looming giant compared to the thirteen-year-olds grouped up at the entrance to the property like a small legion of courageous warriors looking upon their foe with nothing but ire lingering in their faces.

"Alright, are we all ready?" He asks with a quick glance over to both sides of him, "Everybody has a weapon?"

Before they headed over to 29 Neibolt street, Jack snuck into his parent's room and unlocked his father's gun safe, took his two pieces and three boxes of ammunition. The fact that the guns were so easily accessible was alarming to him, but he didn't care at that point, they needed them. He gave them both to Alexis and Warner. Rowan didn't want to touch them, said guns freak her out and opted for a gnarly, eight-inch serrated knife from the block in the kitchen and Jack brought his baseball bat from when he'd played in a Little League a few years ago.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go," The other boy states firmly, grip on the bat tightening.

Armed and dangerous, they prepare to enter the den of the beast.

Warner glances down at the gun in his hands and checks it to make sure it's still loaded though he'd checked a total of twelve times on the walk over here. Discreetly, of course. If someone saw a teenaged boy walking around with a Glock 17 they'd probably dial nine-one-one and CPS as quickly as they could. But he checks, just in case, and then slides the magazine back into it with a click.

Knowing how to use a gun from his dad, Jack showed them the basics in the seclusion of that room he initially woke up in after that first day, so he repeats those instructions in the back of his mind. Never point it unless you want to shoot, never put your finger on the trigger unless you're ready to shoot, when you want to have it ready to go you pull back the slide to load a bullet into the chamber. It's a mantra. If he could hurt it enough to fend it off and then begin the Ritual, they might have a chance.

"L-L-Luh-Let's go."

Their footfalls are nearly soundless on the grass overgrowing along the walkway to the porch and they guard one another, keep watch at each others' backs, as the front door creaks open in front of them with one quick shove from Alexis with her free hand.

That instantaneous stillness that he had once felt, only days from that already feels like weeks ago, stepping into the threshold of the Neibolt house for the first time comes over him with his first move into the front room of the damned place. It's more sinister this time, with its cobwebs and dust, simply knowing what has happened here.

It occurs to him that he found Bill's flashlight here, the object shoved into the belt loop of his jeans that are rolled up at the ankles, he unknowingly gravitated right to the thing. He held onto it through the pain of jumping out of the window and running away, only dropping it when he was safe enough to let himself collapse onto the blacktop of the street in front of Jack's house.

 _It's time to pay for what you've done_.

-

They were on their way to Neibolt when her phone rang and everything went to hell.

"Warner isn't here."

That was all her dad had to say before her stomach took a free-fall into the pit of her gut and she stopped dead in her tracks, hand over heart as the world began to crumble.

Y/N stands with the phone to her ear and trembles in her spot. They're around the corner from Neibolt street, unknowingly just a few minutes behind the kids that walked right up to It's doorstep moments ago, and they all stopped with her. But confusion settles over them all.

Richie asked her what was wrong, even grabbed her by the arm, but she lifted her hand in his face, a shaking breath falling from her lips.

"What do you mean he isn't there?" She asks desperately and turns from the group, "He's been answering my calls every day, he was  _fine_  this morning and now he's suddenly not home?"

Only Bev knows and she has her mouth shut into a firm line, not wanting to be the one to explain and knowing it isn't her place. She only watches all of them step a little closer to their friend in worry. Bill, meanwhile, is standing closest and his face twists with confusion. She doesn't even register him reaching out to touch her. Nothing else matters, he doesn't matter, all that she can think, breathe, and focus on is Warner.

Who is he?

The feeling of her heart rapidly beating against her chest nearly hurts and her breathing catches in the back of her throat. And all she can think is;  _Warner isn't safe, something's wrong and I can't protect him anymore. I can't save him, I can't, I can't, I can't_ -

-

Every step through the hellish house makes him shiver with fear, but he tries to shove that down as far as it will go.

It's empty here and they venture into the living room together, as one flowing group, with their weapons at the ready to strike at any given moment. Yet it doesn't make an appearance.

The notebooks were specifically detailed on every encounter with It, down to every emotion and movement and second that passed while they dwelled in its presence. He isn't ready to back down, in fact, he'll die trying to kill it if it means all of the slaughterings will finally be put to an end. Word by word, he was gripped by the stories of his parents' lives and love together and though he'd never admit it, Bill is the exact kind of man he wanted to grow up to be. It's easy to see why everyone followed him, ever the leader and hero with boyish charm and charisma that leaped off the page at him through every cursive letter. It's infuriating! Then there's the part of him that wonders so longingly;  _if he comes off as being so charismatic and charming, if he loved my mom that much and seems like the kind of person you look up to then why did he abandon me? Why didn't he want me?_

He shakes his head at himself. Not now.

"Why isn't it here?" Alexis asks, "You'd think it would come running, we're pretty much ringing a dinner bell for the asshole."

Something's not right.

Jack's voice echoes throughout the wide open space, "Maybe it's actually not here...it might be terrorizing some other poor kid."

As if on cue, something loud collapses upstairs and every one of them snaps their heads up to the direction it came from.

Rowan's hand had jerked toward him as soon as that booming crash reverberated through the walls of the house, her fingers closing around his wrist with a death grip. His head turns to the right to look at her and she yanks back her hand as if he'd burned her.

 _Sorry_.

But then, slowly, he moves the gun into his other hand and takes her's into his grasp, interlacing their fingers until he's holding onto her like a lifeline with his carefully bandaged hand.

_I've got you._

Both of their eyes move forward without another word or hidden communication after this and it marks the beginning. The beginning of the hunt.

The stairs eerily creak under their shifting weight as he leads them to meet their monster for what will hopefully be the last few minutes of its miserable life. All of them are dead silent, the house still, and they pursue the source of the noise.

All he can do is hold onto her hand and the gun's grip tighter with every step they ascend to the second floor until they're stood at the end of that hallway.

"Hello?" Jack calls out.

His baseball bat is raised up by his shoulders stretching out above his head of light blond hair, ready to strike whatever it is that will come up in front of him. But not behind. Jackson Harris had not prepared to be attacked from behind.

Before he can let out a scream, It pulls his feet out from underneath of him and tugs him back until the only thing that alerts his friends of the attack is the sound of his skull thumping against stair after stair as he is dragged down the first flight.

All three of them scream at the top of their lungs, raising up their weapons, but Alexis is the loudest and she's crying out his name, "JACK!"

He's flung like a rag doll over the stair railing and It smiles at them through the groans of pain coming from the lower level where the young boy awaits his death, blood and gore caked on its serrated teeth that make the eight-inch knife in Rowan's trembling hand look like a plastic spork by comparison. It looms overhead, so tall it makes Warner feel as short as the girl whose hand he holds for dear life, and they stare, frozen, into the eyes of the clown.

The Shifter indeed, the last time he saw it it had been a spider and then his mother, but this creepy, spine-tingling form is the scariest he's seen yet.

But it's when it speaks that he's broken out of that terror-induced daze.

"W-Wuh-Wuh-What's the matter, Warner? Daddy can't be bothered to come save you?" Pennywise, the form that he'd read about, chuckles playfully and the sound is worse than any other he's heard, "I can save you, just come join me. You'll float down there, everyone does, so will Jack-"

He yanks back the slide, loading a bullet into the chamber of the gun.

"Shut the fuck  _up_!" at 'up', he squeezes the trigger.

The gunshot is so loud that his ears ring, much louder than he ever imagined gunshots would be, but he blows a hole through the wall where It had been standing in front of. It moved with preternatural strength and speed and dodged the moving bullet he shot point blank at the center of it's head like it was nothing. Instead of blowing its brains (or whatever it is up there in that bulbous head) out onto it, the wall is instead shot through.

The Shifter smiles, a horrible smile that makes all of them shudder with fear, and drops down to the size of a small mouse. It is a mouse. Right before their eyes, it falls.

Warner doesn't miss a beat and he surges forward, not bothering with shooting but rather attempting to stop it under the foot of his sneakers. He takes stair after stair, jumping down on where it had been a half second before and missing. It's too damn fast for him and yet he doesn't give up. It comes to the point where he's flying down the staircase with every hurried stomp. The girls are right behind him too, knife and gun at the ready in case it shifts into a form that he can't fend off or harm as easily as he can this one.

By the time they reach the end of the stairs he aims the gun at the mouse and shoots, but he misses by a landslide.

The sound of these gunshots captures the attention of other people though, a group of adults congregated at the end of the street. It's enough for the woman to put down her phone and end the call with her parents, eyes drifting to where shots pop off at the end of the street.

"Kill it!"

He doesn't recognize who says what but they're both shouting at him and it's distracting, it almost makes him trip over the last two steps before reaching the bottom. It's only one more until-

They don't see it. Where it went or who it went to, it's tiny and the grey fur coat of the mouse it takes the form of blends into the floor and camouflages it perfectly.

"W-What the..."

There's no mouse. Only an unconscious Jack Harris lying flat on his back after falling off a story tall staircase railing while they all look closely for the sign of his attacker.

That's the moment that it comes into view.

Warner watches in abject horror, unable to do anything to stop it from happening, as It, still in the form of a pocket-sized grey baby mouse, crawls its way into Jack's open mouth. All of them halt in their places and listen with eyes wide, full of fear, to the subdued sounds of his choking. And they can see the lump where the mouse travels down the length of his esophagus from outside of his body, it makes one of the girls gasp. What is he supposed to do? Reach down his throat and grab the fucker? It feels like he can't do anything and knowing that he's helpless fuels that rage to a level that scares even him.

It's as if the entire world stopped spinning.

It threw Jack down the staircase and crawled into his stomach. They stand perfectly still for one minute, two, and then it dawns on him.

It occurs to him what It is going to do, why exactly it crawled down his throat, and he barely has the time to warn them before it shifts forms.  _No, no, no, no, no! It's gonna_ -

His throat is raw with how loudly he screams it, "Get do-"

The force of the explosion throws him back against the wall.

Blood sprays out everywhere- _I never knew-how do humans have this much blood?_ -and the boy's entire body is blown to bits by the swift and powerful shift it took to turn his body into a pulpy mist from going from the size of a baby mouse in the pit of his belly to that terrifying spider-scorpion disaster it had been when he first laid eyes on it. Jack's insides are splattered all over the room.

It takes him long, too long, to get his bearings because he's slathered in guts and- _JESUS **FUCKING**  CHRIST THERE'S A FUCKING  **INTESTINE**  IN MY FUCKING LAP!_-he can taste the iron of his blood coating the inside of his mouth that had been open in a blood-curdling scream in a slick layer. It takes every ounce of control he has not to vomit all over himself at the sight and the smell that reeks and clings to him, that coats him, like a second skin. It all happened so fast and though time had slowed down for him, it happened in a matter of a few minutes. That quickly, It took one of them and painted the walls with his insides. This is when he begins to feel it rise within him. This is when that exterior of courage and anger begins to give way something he cannot help-absolute, sheer, undiluted fear.

He wipes his face and eyes of the repulsive sludge that is what remains of his friend, gagging at the feel of it against where the bandages don't cover on his hands. Someone is throwing up, Rowan, and the other, Alexis, is sobbing, but he doesn't look.

How could he when It towers over him in the form of none other than Bill Denbrough.

Despite never once meeting the man, as far as he can remember, he instantly recognizes the face staring down at him with cold insanity. His face twitches, blue eyes narrowing down at the boy who has his own pair to match, and it drops to its knees. Even on its knees, the height it has dwarfs him entirely.

"S-Shouldn't have shot," He chants through clenched teeth and a sick, twisted laugh, "Shouldn't have shot, shouldn't have, s-shouldn't have shot at me-"

His hand is the only giveaway that whatever it is that's attacking him isn't really Bill. With razor-sharp talons punching out its fingertips it grips him by the face with one huge hand and when it smiles next, the previous human-like teeth it had sported reappear as those same serrated teeth of a killer that had smiled up at him on the staircase.

It's muttering so close to his face that it's rancid breath shoves it's way up his nostrils, "He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts, he thrusts his first and against the posts and still insists he-"

The explosion that flung him back hurt his head and his fading-he can feel it, he's starting to let go and with the gun out of reach he can't escape the grasp of the Shifter.

_My gun! Where's my gun?_

What he doesn't realize is that he's shouting this at Rowan, mind to mind, and she grimaces at the volume it reaches her at. It nearly makes her brain rattle against her skull like a pinball it's so loud.

It doesn't occur to him to scream, so all he does is writhe at the pain that it digging the tips of its claws into his cheeks causes him. It burns! Why does it burn so badly? He can feel his skin break open around them, hot blood slipping down the length of its hand in swift little drips, and it hurts so badly. But he doesn't scream. He doesn't let it get that out of him and instead grits his teeth together through the brunt of it, staring right into that face with the strength of not a boy, but a man. But that quality, the resilience that makes him get back up every single time he's shoved down, is the resilience of a woman's. Of his mother. And it can feel that, the combination of both souls entwined at the very heart of this thirteen-year-old boy, and it makes it angrier. The son his enemies, the product of his failure to kill those rotten children that sent him back to the Macroverse! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Its mind urges, but he's not scared enough. Just like his frustratingly courageous parents, this kid pushes back against that prodding power it uses against him with every morsel of strength remaining that little body of his.

A boy, half hero, half calamity, sent from Maturin the Turtle himself to conquer and destroy It for good.

The human it's looking upon, only a  _baby_  in its eyes for crying out loud, is some kind of god. He had to be; that's the only way he has the kind of strength he does to not crumble right here, right now. He was bred and born for this and entered this realm for the sole purpose of killing it. At least, that's what It thinks.

Whether or whether not he is a god among mortals sent specifically to annihilate It, he doesn't care. All he wants is to get out, to live. It's an urge rooted deep inside him and it clangs through his mind wildly. He must live. He must find his parents. He must get out.

It's mouth opens wide, still in the form of the man whose face mirrors his own, and it leans closer than close until he's about to be swallowed whole. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Rowan's voice in his mind is calm and from where she stands her hands are steady on the grip of the gun. Her hands do not shake.

_I've got you._

The gunshot propels the creature into the ground so hard that he can feel the pain of its crash secondhand and he rejoices in any ounce of suffering the ugly thing receives at the hand of his hero. There's no chance of them beating it now though, not with Jack blown to pieces all over them.

He scrambles to his feet and gives one warning, one rallying cry before he darts off for the distance so fast that nobody can dream of seeing him as he moves, "Run!"

The world blurs around him as he books it through the ground level of the Creep House at a speed that shouldn't be possible. The impact of his feet with every pounding stride on the floor aches in his joints, but he pays that no heed. He must live. He must find his parents. He must get out.

Wind blows cold against his skin and blood-damp clothes as he crosses that barrier between house and yard and somewhere deep inside he weeps at the sight of daylight. He doesn't realize it, but he isn't weeping on the inside, he sobbing on the outside. Tears, as well as sprinting through the decayed front yard, make his vision blur, yet there's nothing that can stop him. He's flying and with every thrumming beat of his heart it chants go, go, go, go!

The sounds of his choking wails flood the entire street and he's this close to collapsing where he is, except there's a force that keeps him going. He isn't sure what it is, but it's warm and loving, surging and empowering, and it's strength wraps around his body like a glove and pushes him onward whether he wants to or not. Go, go, go, go!

And on the other end of the street, there's a stunned silence that breaks across the Losers.

Y/N stands, halted to a stop, in front of them all.

They heard the gunshots and had begun to rush to the house, they'd made it to the corner where Route 2 and Neibolt street intersect when a figure came bolting out the front door of the building that haunts their every dream. She was still festering in the thick heat of worry for her child and the only reason she couldn't explain was because of the shots firing down the road. She had asked her dad another question and suddenly jumped backward into Bill's arms at the sound of a gunshot.

But now...

Now her heart has stopped beating because, god help her, she sees Warner sprinting towards them at full speed.

He isn't there in Pennsylvania, he's in Derry. Every worst fear that has haunted her since she gave birth to him has physically manifested itself into this very moment; her son is in Derry. On the twenty-seventh year since It had terrorized them, he's here and running for his life from Neibolt. And it takes her a long while to stop standing there with a dumbfounded look on her face, it takes her much longer than it should.

This was supposed to be the day it all ended and they were supposed to go into the sewers to kill it. That was all. No phone calls from her parents or children showing up here. She almost waits for him to shift into something else, thinking maybe it's It in disguise as her boy, but it isn't and when she realizes that it's really him, she loses it.

Not caring who's listening, not giving a damn if it sparks up every single memory in the head of the person she's been trying to keep this from, she bellows, "Warner!"

The sound of his mother's voice is akin to the angels singing and he moves faster, throwing down his feet in harder strides than he should be capable of making. He defies everything to reach them. He has to live. He has to get out. He has to find his parents.

It wasn't the name, nor was it the sight of him, but it's what the child says, it's what he hears next that is the spark to what flares into a raging inferno depths of his mind that he never knew existed and hasn't thought about in eleven years. Bill is hit hard by that one syllable word, harder than any physical blow he's ever taken and it makes him instantly gasp.

Warner Denbrough, his son, charges down the center of the street and screams at the top of his lungs, "Mom!"

The floodgates within him fly open.

So quickly, so naturally, he's smacked with a brutal wave of memories. Seattle hadn't been years of dull loneliness and rain storms, it had been  _her_. In all of her loving devotion and fire and glory. Forged anew in the farthest pits of his mind are those memories that he hadn't been able to reach. It had been her, it had been the woman he's been stumbling after blindly this entire trip for reasons he couldn't figure out...

It had been his wife and son.

Their collision is forceful enough to shake the universe and he throws his little arms around her with one final sob, smiling through his tears and snot and the blood tinging his skin red. He doesn't even question it truly being her, if it isn't then let him be killed so long as he gets this final embrace with "her". They fall to the ground together, crying. She kisses his cheek over and over and over again, not even blinking at the gore he's covered in from head to toe, murmuring something that the rest of them can't hear. They can hear him though, all of them can hear him crying, "I'm sorry, Mama! I'm s-s-so suh-sorry!" For leaving, for not listening to her when she didn't want him here. For there had been a reason.

A stutter.

Bill feels as if he might faint.

Two other children are following right behind where he'd run out in front of them, but he doesn't see them, he doesn't see anything but the mother of child and  _him_  kneeling on the pavement in a bone-crushing hug.

He's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Warner is still hugging his mom with the remaining strength left in him and he's crying tears of joy, muttered and stuttered words leaving his mouth that he hardly can register. His chin rests on her shoulder, nuzzling into the space where it and her neck bridge together, when he opens his eyes after having them screwed shut for the time they spent embracing.

That's when he sees him again, after eleven whole years, and as far as he knows the first time on his life, there he is. Standing tall above where he's collapsed to the ground, staring at him in shock. He has red hair, he never pictured him to have red hair, but he does. It's the color of mahogany and he's a lot more handsome than he pictured the man who abandoned him to be. As a child always made his monsters look like monsters, but this man doesn't look like one. He's like the young boy in the pictures and the notebooks, only weathered with the time and stress of years gone by. Smiling and laughing, he'd seen him in those photographs, looking at his mother like she was an angel sent from heaven itself. But he's still fading out, that hit to the head he'd taken, when the room had exploded with the blood and guts of his friend, was hard and it's a miracle he's made it this long at all.

Bill lets a shaking exhale loose and can't help but start to cry.

How had he forgotten? How had he let it make him forget the  _love of his life_? How had it made him forget his own _child_? He cannot stop himself from crying and he doesn't try to. Everything comes back to him. Everything but one. One last thing that his heart can't bear to remember. Something more painful and unbearable than anything he's endured. It's his heart protecting him from something he didn't survive the first time.

The boy looks up into his eyes as he takes a step forward to where they're knelt.

He's starting to go limp in her arms and all but those bright blues up above completely fall away.

_You have your father's eyes._

Warner fades into oblivion.


	8. Salvation (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being separated for eleven years, Bill and Y/N reunite when they come back to Derry to kill It once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd here's Part Two of the final chapter. Have fun!

**PART TWO**

Bill couldn't make himself sleep last night, after they took Warner to the hospital, after facing so many memories of his life with her, the good and bad, there was no way he was able to sleep.

When midnight came and he was still staring off blankly into the blue-black darkness of night outside of his hotel room's curtains, he got up and went to the hospital.

Hallways were empty and only a few stray nurses walked along the linoleum floors while he made his way through the different floors of the building in search for someone at a desk to tell him where he can find the boy's room. Every step he took was labored and utterly exhausted, but still, he couldn't sleep back at the hotel knowing that Warner was here without him. There was something stopping him every time he tried before, at last, gave up and got into the rental car he got on his first day here to go visit him. He asked the lady behind the front reception desk on the second floor, the only one that seemed to be open to help, if she could help him find his son.

It felt weird saying that.  _My son_.

And it felt even weirder telling her his full name; Warner Denbrough. All of it was odd, the sudden realization he had on Neibolt street when he heard him call Y/N his mom, all of these memories swirling around in his head as if they'd never once left, and not knowing where to go next. Those moments from the past that had hit him with the force of a train at full speed were so fresh in his mind that he felt like he was living through them over again in every passing second. Everywhere he looked on the elevator ride up to the hospital room, he felt himself being thrown back into the day the boy was born thirteen years ago. When he'd been nervous out of his mind but hiding it for her sake, when she'd cried in his arms about not wanting to end up a bad mother, the day that the most important person in his life was born.

At first, he'd gone inside the room and pulled a chair up to his bedside. For a while, he simply watched him. Counted every rise and fall of his chest in fear that somehow, despite only getting a concussion, he would fade away for good this time.

They rushed him to the hospital at the sight of-well, everything about him. He was covered in blood and guts that they had to clean off of him with a towel that was in the back of Mike's pickup truck and the girls he was with explained the best they could what had happened to him. The reason for the bruised black eye on the side of his face opposite to his birthmark, why he was littered with small cuts all over his body, they tried to tell them of it all, but they could only go through so much before beginning to shake with fear.

It baffled them how dial toned everyone who treated him became when they told them that the same "person" that's been murdering people left and right was the one that did this to him. That had flipped a switch in their minds and instantly, they stopped asking questions. Instead, it took hold on their minds with that considerable power that even Rowan's shot to its head couldn't harm and turned them into walking zombies of human beings. They treated him and proceeded to leave him alone in all other aspects.

But he didn't care at that point, what it did or didn't do to make people look the other way he didn't care, all he could think of until his son woke up was if he was going to be okay. It wasn't until three in the morning that it occurred to him, after a few hours of sitting and holding Warner's limp little (freshly bandaged) hand that he may not be okay with him being here. That Y/N might not want him here either. Despite how recent they felt, what he could recall from the first two years of his life that he got to spend with him was long ago and things had changed. He's no longer his two-year-old boy, he's growing up and he got to grow into his own personhood all on his own. Without him.

So, when he realized that, though he could legally be there and though he longed to be there so desperately, he wasn't wanted there he dragged the chair outside. In the hallway, to the left of the shut door, he sat for another half hour before drifting off into sleep.

Y/N hadn't meant to fall asleep when she drove back to Mike's house to gather her things and take them back to the hospital with her, it simply happened.

After hours of being on her feet, pacing nervously through the hospital while Warner laid unconscious with fresh bandages and some well deserved professional treatment for his plethora of wounds, she collapsed onto the full-sized bed that has been declared her's for the week without another word. At her feet sat a half-packed duffel bag with clothes, toiletries, and other various items she'd brought on the trip up the coast. It wasn't until morning came, the early light of it glowing with a light blue hue through the slates in the blinds onto her face, that she finally woke up and realized what had happened.

That's what brought her here, to stumbling through the hospital in her only clean clothes left (a button-down, jeans, and an obscenely uncomfortable pair of heels that were all she could find) with that packed bag hanging from her forearm and swinging with every swift step she takes down the main corridor of the fourth floor to where she remembers the room her son is sleeping in.

The harsh sounds of heels clicking on the tiled floor echoes throughout the wide open space that is strangely void of human company. Except-she stops.

Sitting slumped against the wall outside of their son's room with his head tilted back and mouth open with every soft snore that falls from him is Bill.

The sight of him makes her heartbeat quicken and she wants to scold herself for having such a reaction to him still, especially when she's been given so much time to get over the void losing him had left in her those years ago. But instead of scolding herself, her lips curl up into a smile. It's the smile of the girl from so many years ago, when they'd once been the same age as the kids that came running out onto Neibolt street yesterday morning, who loved him in the purest of ways a person can love another person. How could she not smile?

Her eyes linger on his sleeping figure for far longer than she wishes they did, that adoring grin never once faltering. There's a blanket draped over him as if a nurse passed by, saw him, and went to get the grieving father something to keep warm with amid the freezing air-conditioned climate of the building.

But after letting herself gaze upon him for a few generous moments, she walks up to where he's sleeping carefully, aware of the volume of her shoes on the floor and the fact that there possibly might be many other people asleep while waiting for their loved ones now that she's seen him there.

The first face he sees on this Wednesday morning brings warmth to him. Radiating from within in a beautiful, golden light. He has to blink away the sleep from his eyes to make sure he's seeing it clearly and it isn't a trick of the senses.

"You're here..." is all she says.

And her voice sparks up every single memory that had been lost to him, the whispered professions of love she'd given him over the course of their adult lives, the stolen moments they'd spend together in the early hours of the morning, such as like this very time of day now, before work when they would talk quietly amongst themselves until daylight came to separate them for the rest of the day. All of it; its there again. It's back as if it had never left and that's the strangest thing he's ever felt. The sudden solidifying of his connection with the woman standing over him that he hadn't had the chance to brace himself for. If he weren't already sitting it would have knocked him off his feet.

It's hard to keep himself at a distance.

"Of c-cuh-course I'm here," He murmurs.

The deafening silence that follows is only interrupted by the quiet beeping of the heart monitor within the room and they stare at each other.

Those eyes follow every twitch and movement she makes, no matter how minute. The way her throat bobs when she swallows back that lump that had begun to form there and how her free hand is shoved anxiously into the back pocket of her jeans so that he can't see how it trembles. None of it goes unseen and it's almost reminiscent of that first night they'd been here, in Mike's kitchen when neither of them knew what to say yet felt something. Something strong and resonant within them, flaring up brightly with every second the interaction is prolonged between them.

Yet at the same time, it's different. Because this overwhelmingly loud silence isn't out of forgetting how to talk to one another or the time and distance between them creating a barrier, this silence is tense with something else. This time there aren't any barriers keeping them back and all that rests between them is twelve inches of empty air that could be crossed in a matter of a second. For one, and only one, genuine and unrestrained moment of silence, she lets herself give in to the gravitation pull he's had on this entire trip.

Him breaking that silence shatters that into a million little pieces. It makes her remember their situation.

"Do you w-w-w-" He stops and his face scrunches in frustration at that, before he looks back up at her to ask, "Do you w-whuh-wanna talk about it?"

She knows what he means.

There's no need to clarify what it is they're to talk about because they both know what he recalled for the first time in a decade. They'd be talking about them and in that proposition to talk, there's a question. A silent, pleeing one that he didn't even register he'd asked until the words came out.  _Will you give me a chance or will you shut me out?_  That's what he wants to know.

And there's a moment where she considers it and he can feel her hanging on the edge of saying yes. He can feel it and that ignites a kernel of hope of his own, somewhere far inside him that he hadn't known had gone out a long time ago.

Her hand tightens on the handle to the duffel bag and she averts her eyes to the ground, unable to stand it any longer.

"I-" She shakes her head, "I can't, I'm sorry, Bill..."

The harsh reality sets in on both of them right then and he barely nods to himself at that in an attempt to accept her answer, when, in reality, there's a part of him thrashing in protest at that acceptance he forces that wants to tell her so badly, but he doesn't let it show. A mask falls into place over his features, schooling his emotions into cool neutrality with a polite half-smile.

Bill sits up straighter as he looks at her one last time and amends, his voice so heartbreakingly soft, "Don't be."

The chair squeaks with him standing up from it and they're too close to each other. Close enough to where her chest begins to rise and fall faster than it had been in a way you'd only pick up on if you were paying attention, which he isn't doing. Time begins to pick back up again at a regular speed rather than the painstakingly slow limbo they'd been stuck in in the midst of that silence and it's moving too fast for her, if only it would slow down. If only she could have more time to sort through the mess that is her mind and heart's bickering, battling it out for what one wants and what the other doesn't. But he's moved away before that can happen, time moving quicker the farther he goes. It's cold in his absence.

The blanket is set carefully back down onto the chair he'd dragged out into the hallway and she watches him, so many different emotions crossing his face that they all blend together into one unsolvable puzzle.

"I s-should go back to the hotel, get some sleep. He probably w-w-won't want me there when he wakes up," Bill doesn't even try to make himself sound alright and it breaks her, "He'll want you."

She can't even reach out to stop him before he's walking away from her. All there is to do is call out, "Wait a second-"

But he doesn't turn around.

-

Rowan has been waiting a day and a half to see him ever since he was whisked away at the corner of Neibolt and Route 2.

His voice hasn't come to her in her thoughts. Not a word, it's all dead quiet. The last thing that had crossed that connecting thread they have to one another was three simple words.

_I've got you._

Before she shot the brains out of the head of the Shifter in the form of his father. Before they ran out of their faster than she'd ever seen someone move before and ran right into the real Bill Denbrough along with six other people standing side by side at the end of the street. The Losers. How odd it had been to go from reading about their adventures obsessively and looking through their pictures to them standing before her in real life. The notebooks had been written so eloquently, almost like a book, to the point where seeing them felt like seeing fictional beings come to life. Off that page they came and they were larger than life, with an element to them when all together that cannot be captured by words or images.

The only thing that had taken her off guard was the absence of one. Of Stanley Uris, who had been written down to be one of her favorites of them all with his sweet fondness for birds and especially close bonds with Richie Tozier and Mike Hanlon, who never turned up to Derry. Even now, while she's locked away in her bedroom looking at those photographs that Warner had been going through with her only two days ago, she wonders if It had somehow gotten to him.

Truth be told, she tried to go see Warner.

He was let out of the hospital shortly after waking up this morning, due to the extent of his physical injuries being bruises and a concussion, but she wasn't allowed to see him. Either that or the alternative that she doesn't want to consider...he doesn't want her to see him.

Y/N had told her he wasn't ready to do anything other than rest in bed for the remaining days of the week, but something told her that maybe he just didn't want her there and, for reasons she can't place, that was a painful thought.

Sure; they only met this week and she has no reason to want to see him at a time like this, but she can't help it. After all they've endured together, the amount of time they've known each other couldn't matter less because they're friends. With every piece of her, she cares about him and wants to spend as much time with him as she can. Because the Shifter is still out there.

It killed-no, killed isn't a strong enough word- _annihilated_  Jack before their very eyes and they were all left covered in the remains of that murder. Last night, after vigorously scrubbing her skin until it was raw to rid herself of the stench of those remains, she found a small clump of his brain tissue tangled up into her hair and screamed herself hoarse when it dropped onto the shower floor with a splat that triggered her gag reflex. She nearly vomited multiple times during that shower and her drain was caked with the gore that had been coating her body by the time she was done.

After the other day? She's genuinely afraid of seeing it again. Before her blind rage and grief had driven her straight onto It's doorstep and now she's hesitant. Willing, but hesitant. To throw herself and people she cares about into danger. What would she do if what happened to Jack happened to Alexis or Warner? Would she be able to survive washing the brain tissue and pureed organs and fluids of  _him_ off of her without breaking down and forever staying in that dark, treacherous place?

The room is fully lit, curtains drawn shut, and the door to her bedroom is locked with a desk chair propped beneath the doorknob.

It can't get her. She refuses to let it. Not before she avenges Patrick or dies trying to.

It's on a loop in her head, no crying, no breaking, no giving up until she gets there. Not yet.

-

Y/N plops down on the bed where Eddie and Beverly are laying, watching a comedy special in her room that she assumes Richie had recommended to them before he left, and lets out a deep huff into the pillow.

They both turn to look at each other knowingly over where she's plunged herself face first into Eddie's preferred pile of multiple blankets and what has to be the most pillows she's ever seen someone who sleeps alone use, pity taking over their features entirely.

After spending years apart, the Losers have been using every spare moment to have more time together in these days that it takes for Warner to recover that they all agreed to pause their hunt after It for. The chance of more children, even adults, going "missing" skyrockets with every hour wasted sitting around doing things like this that are far too mundane for their circumstances, but it's necessary. No matter how much their itch to track it down, make it pay for what they saw left of Jackson Harrison covering Warner from head to toe or make it pay for the way it so clearly has been targeting him this entire time.

It makes their blood boil.

As long as It lives, all of the children of Derry are at risk. Yet there is something about their child that it loathes. There's this hatred it holds for him, so vitriolic and irrational, that it's become reckless in its attempts to seize him. What they don't know is that it tried and failed multiple times to take him. It had been at the hospital disguised as a nurse, so close to getting its hands on the kid that it could taste his fear already, but then someone interrupted. Bill had come into the room right when It was approaching the edge of his bed and ruined everything.

How it  _despises_ Bill Denbrough, the pestering little fool of a mortal. At every turn, he's there to challenge it in its lust for blood. When It takes one step forward, he shoves it three steps back. There's nothing it would delight in more than ripping his flesh open, slowly, torturously, until all that remains is an unrecognizable hollow shell of a man. His fear had been delicious and addictive the last time they were fighting and It wants every last drop.

The creature bides it's time, hidden in the shadows of the property, and awaits the opportunity to pounce. Soon it will lure him down. Soon, he will float.

Eddie's room, one of the two guest bedrooms in Mike's house, is across the hallway from where she and Warner are staying.

They spent a while talking tonight about stupid things like how her drive up here had been and how much he misses his own bed at home. Anything but the obvious, glaring new person in his life.

He isn't ready to talk about the whole "father" situation yet and she isn't inclined to force him to. They're lucky that he's alive, that is what they can start with. The rest, they can work out later and she said that, as he was drifting off with one of his hands holding her's ten minutes ago she told him not to rush things. To do it on his own terms and not because of what he thinks someone else may want him to say or do. That was always big with her. Consent. About everything, about personal boundaries, physical boundaries, everything. She taught him that what he feels matters and that he shouldn't let someone pressure him into doing anything.

For that reason, she won't push him on the topic. No matter how sure she is that Bill is anxious for the moment that they are to meet again, that's between them and them only. That decision belongs to Warner.

Eddie asks, pulling her from her thoughts, "You wanna talk about it?"

Though they don't see it, she cocks an eyebrow.

"About what?"

And though she doesn't see it, they both share a look that says,  _She knows exactly what we're talking about_ , but don't say that.

It's not as if she's able to hide the way she feels well. Not from the Losers, they're them, not when they're her family. They've known her since she was twelve, once you've grown up with someone that way you don't forget their tells and ticks and she's currently well on her way to a place they've seen her go to before.

Y/N has a history of being well guarded and walling herself in when things become rough. Bill was the exception to this, always, but after that wedge had been driven between them leading to this colossal mess, she doesn't let anyone through those barriers. What is the point of loving and opening up and letting in, when it leads to such heartbreak? Why not stay safe and protected instead? She has no intention of loving like that and becoming vulnerable for another human being in that way ever again. When she looks where it got her the last time...

He doesn't beat around the bush.

"About Bill," His pause is for her sake because, god help them, there's far too much to unpack here, "About why you won't give him the decency of a five-minute conversation about the future he wants to have in his kid's life."

"Eddie!" Bev exclaims incredulously and leans over her body to smack him on the arm.

"But I'm not wro-"

"Don't listen to him, Y/N, he just forgot how to act like a civilized human being for a second, he'll catch up."

This launches them into some ridiculous argument about how they never would hold back when it came to each other and never had, while she stays buried into the bed trying to drown out the noise of them going back and forth about whether or not they're allowed to call her out when she does something they think is unfair. It doesn't matter if she's being unfair. It won't matter in the end anyway, when they destroy It and can go back to their separate lives forever. These last two days have been her telling herself that again and again to the brink of insanity. I've she can make it to then, if she can say goodbye one more time, then everything will be fine. Then, she'll be alone.

But, in the back to her mind, she knows that isn't true.

Her voice is muffled by the pillows and blankets, "I can't get hurt again."

They ask her at the same time, argument stopping in it's tracks and turning to face the skulking woman, "What did you say?"

The light on the ceiling above the bed is blinding when she first flips onto her back and looking up in the direction of the sky with tears blooming at the brims of her eyes.

"I can't talk to him, it'll just end in more pain and heartbreak."

Instantaneously, those faded memories of a cold winter evening flood her mind and she has to shut her eyes to hide the emotion that surges through her. Snow fluttering about outside, a hand holding her's, and the hollow weight of something already lost pushing down her shuddering chest. As quickly as it came, she forces it out and locks it behind a door within her mind.

That's when Bev sighs, a hand already reaching to her's.

"Oh, Y/N," She whispers, "You know that ignoring him won't avoid heartbreak, don't you?"

There's nothing that could be said to break her down on this though.

"What should I do then? Talk to him and break down and admit everything I've felt only to lose him again someday, whether it be tomorrow or ten years from now?"

"You can't hide forever, you have to have this conversation at some point-"

"I don't  _want_  to!"

This time it's Eddie who speaks up, sitting up straighter, and makes her looks at him with a familiar sense of ferocity much like the kind that had once burned within her so brightly. Now, she's merely an ember.

"What happened to you?" He asks and that door she'd locked the memory behind cracks open, before she slams it shut again, "It's Bill...Y/N, it's Bill, you two don't do this. You don't hide from each other whenever there's an issue. That isn't you and you damn well know that pushing him away will only make things worse."

Those words hit her hard.

 _This isn't you, this isn't you, this isn't you!_  Is he right? She's so helpless and twisted around, she doesn't even know when it begins and ends; this festering poison that is her isolation. Life has been this way for eleven years and hasn't changed once since then, so how is she to know at this point? When the loneliness becomes suffocation. When independence transforms into isolation.

The room seems to pulse with every word she says, "I don't know who I am anymore."

-

Bill decided early in the night that he didn't care about the outcome that consequences of his actions. If Warner and Y/N lived that would be all that matters.

The rest, he could handle.

It wasn't odd for the owner of the bar to see someone shuffle into his business at twelve in the afternoon on a Thursday. Alcoholics start early, people who self medicate don't care what time of day it is, and people like Bill, with whatever it is they may be going through, could care less what other people may see them as for drinking so early in the day. And so, it began.

Nothing mattered anymore once that he knew Y/N wasn't going to open up or at least give him the chance to talk about their son and what the future would hold in regards to his place in his life. If It wanted to come get him?  _So be it_ , he thought and threw back another shot. The liquor burned his throat on the way down, but if he noticed or even cared, he didn't let on.

He's about nine shots in when Richie Tozier walks in.

Richie hasn't been in here in years.

It was one of the few times they all came back together and it was on the Holiday break of their senior year of college. Nothing in the room has changed. Not a single chair or glass, not a table or picture hung along the wall. (The only thing changed was a window that was replaced after the old one was destroyed in a drunken fight). But it has retained so much from all that time ago and even its owner is still working behind the bar, though time has definitely taken a toll on the man.

He spots Bill almost instantly and looks him over from where he stands in the doorway of the bar. His friend is hunched over in the stool closest to him, forehead resting against his crossed arms, hair disheveled from running his fingers through it too much, and nine empty shot glasses sitting flipped on their tops on the oak wood bar. The man is so gone, he doesn't even notice one of his closest, if not his best, friends creeping up behind him.

The stool beside him creaks with the weight of another man sitting down, but he only looks up when he hears his voice.

"Jesus fuck, you look like shit, man."

Bill snaps his head up to find the source of the words and isn't surprised to find that it was who he thought he heard.

He has been changed significantly by Father Time, with new wrinkles and slight signs of the years that have passed them by displaying in places that hadn't been there before, but he's still their Trashmouth hasn't changed much in the places where it counts. There's still this energy surrounding home everywhere he goes that he can't quite explain, but rather feel whenever they're together. And outside of the one person he'd let in closer than anyone, Richie always seemed to understand him on a level no one else could.

He scoffs and looks back down at the counter, where a freshly filled shot glass (of tequila, his preferred liquor of choice when he desires to get absolutely trashed), and swallows back the mouthful of it before considering his response. This time, he does grimace at the taste and feel of the liquid as it goes down. It's cheap, so it burns a little worse and has the taste equivalent of rubbing alcohol, but it's effective and that's all he cares about.

"Y-Yuh-You came a-all the way down h-here just to tell me I'm n-n-n-not pretty?" Bill asks, stutter much worse than the last time he heard it, and feigns offense with a hand over his chest, "I'm h-hurt, Trashmouth, y-y-you w-wound me."

"Yeah, well you aren't pretty right now. You're drooling and you smell like cheap booze," A pause, then, "You're not drinking idiot oil are you?"

Bill shakes his head, scrunching up his face in a way that feigns offense, but proceeds to order another.

Idiot oil is what Richie called tequila back when they were living together full time because it turns his friend into a moron who acts on every whim that pops into that ginger head of his. He specifically gets very horny, argumentative, or sad when he drinks it. So he'd either be dragging Y/N off to some secluded place, pick a fight which would inevitably end in someone getting their shit rocked (whether it would be Bill or someone else, fate would decide), or he'd be crying into someone's shoulder. Neither of them are sure what tonight will end up like, but they're both leaning toward the latter.

Everything has fallen apart...

His wrist is grabbed as he's lifting the glass to his mouth and he raises his eyebrows at the other man in question.

"What are you doing, Bill?"

The snarky little fuck retorts, "Well, r-r-r-right now I'm t-trying to enjoy my-my idiot oil, b-but you w-want to ask me about m-m-my love life and s-son, right?"

The look on Richie's face though, it wipes all of the attitude from him and he straightens, everything that's happened flooding back to him. He gets his arm loose from his tight grip, tilts his head back, and swallows it all. That sound of the glass hitting the wooden bar reverberates through every corner of his soul. What was that? Ten or eleven? Twelve? He wouldn't know, but if it's any of them he's nearing dangerous territory, even for him. Though he doesn't drink too often, only on the rare nights out or holidays, his tolerance is fairly high. It takes five shots for him to feel it bad, and then another few to start questioning where he is.

There's a dip of quiet between them, the sounds of other patrons, since it's now nighttime, enjoying their time out filling that gap, while they both wait to see who will cave first.

"You know what I meant. What are you doing, here, getting drunk off your ass when you should be at Mike's waiting for your kid to ask for you. What if he wants to meet you and you aren't there-"

"He doesn't," He cuts him off and looks down at his hands, flexes them out in front of him to have something to look at other than make eye contact with the person beside him, "He d-d-doesn't want to see me. I called a-and she told me he said he's not r-r-ready to talk to me yet," a whimper caught in the back of his throat that you can only catch if you listen hard enough, which, his friend does, "He p-probably h-hah-hates me, Rich. Probably t-t-thuh-thinks I ran out on them and was a deadbeat, why  _would_  he want t-to t-t-talk if all I ever did was abandon him?"

Abandonment,  _neglect_ , same difference to him, what makes him any different than his parents?

And that's what brought him here. That terrifying connection he made between what he's done and what his parents did to him.

Richie can tell when that thought, that unfair comparison, crosses his mind, and he reaches forward swiftly and holds him by both hands, forcing him to turn to face him.

He says without a sign of his usual masks or diversions from the cold discomfort of reality, "Don't you dare, that's not fair. You didn't abandon him, you can't abandon someone you didn't know existed, he doesn't know about the forgetting. If you knew, you would have been there every day. Every. Single. Day."

They all saw the bitter neglect he experienced following his brother's death. He got far too thin to be healthy in that first year following their triumphant victory in the summer and they saw it in small moments, like when he took his shirt off to swim and his ribs poked out from his skin, or when Y/N would hug him goodbye and all she felt was skin and bone embracing her back. He only started putting it back on when they all came together to put an end to it, alternating packing him a lunch every day for school and inviting him over to eat dinner at their houses. Then there were the times he'd show up to hang out with the Losers with red, watery eyes and they'd know that another disappointing day of longing for his parent's affection to no avail had passed him by in the hours before they met up. It was evident in almost everything he did; the fact that he had been raising himself.

His biggest fear in the days leading up to when they decided to have Warner was that he would somehow end up like that, broken and clinging desperately to the phantom of something he wouldn't be able to give him and to know that that very fear came to life without his knowledge-he chokes back the emotion it rises in the pit of his chest.

"It doesn't m-m-matter why I w-wasn't there, he s-s-still didn't have a d-d-d-d-dad. He's still just as traumatized from it as he would have been i-if I had just knocked her up a-a-and left her alone to raise him, I still w-wuh-wasn't there-"

"Then, go."

And those words stop everything within him.

His eyes finally meet with Richie's and something crumbles, vulnerable and needing, in the depths of his heart.

"Then go be there now, when it counts. He will want to talk eventually, it may be a while, but he'll want to," Then he's scoffing and he says, "Come on, you think he won't ever let you meet him? As far as he's concerned, you're a mystery he's been trying to solve his whole life, as soon as he gets his head screwed on straight he's going to be asking to see you."

"Y-Y-Y-You think so?"

"I know so," He confirms and slowly lets go of his hands, "You should go."

But he hadn't expected Bill to take to the advice so well, because when he immediately stands from his bar stool, forgetting his phone behind so he has to grab it for him, and shuffles on out of the building, he has to hurry after him so he won't get behind the wheel in such a state.

-

The pounding sound of someone knocking against Mike Hanlon's front door is what draws her up from her spot sandwiched between Eddie and Beverly while the two were still watching the game show channel, sharing a bowl of buttered popcorn between the three of them while she stared blankly at the ceiling the entire time.

Her first thought was something along the lines of,  _who the fuck is trying to wake up the whole house right now?_  But as she makes her way down the steps in her pajamas and the thin silk robe of Beverly's that she threw on on her way out of the room, she wonders why anyone is banging on the door with that much intent rather than who it is. Unless it's any of the Losers, one in particular that she's praying  _won't_  be behind that door when she opens it, she has no idea.

The front hallway passes by in a gentle blur of pale yellow paint and hung pictures, her eyes still slightly watery from when she cried while talking to Eddie and Bev earlier, but she blinks it away for the sake of not alerting the person at the door of her feelings. It doesn't matter anyway, how she feels about what's happening, by the time the week is over she'll never see Bill Denbrough again outside of books in the display window of Barnes and Noble or if Warner wants to spend time with him now that that truth is out for good.

She tries to ignore that though. The fact that he will want to get to know him at some point or another regardless of her plans. Because it's all up to him. Whether or not he wants his dad in his life, it's his call, not her's. That aspect of their lives is out of her control now and it scares her.

There's another few particularly hard knocks on the door before she sighs and reaches for the doorknob, making quick work of the lock and swinging it out into the front hall.

What she sees isn't what she anticipated and it instantly makes her stomach fall into the pit of her abdomen.

"Bill?" She asks, her eyes wide as ever and her heart hammering into her rib cage, "What are you doing here?"

The porch is strangely cold under her bare feet as she shuffles through the entryway and closes the door behind her in fear of Warner coming downstairs for something and seeing them there. It's still light out, but the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon in the west in the way that tells her it'll be night before she knows it. Sunsets in their home town don't last very long, beautiful as they may be, and it always passed by her quickly on days when her parents only request was to be back before dark. When one moment she would be riding bikes and hanging out with her friends and then she'd be frantically biking home, most of the time with Bill riding on Silver right beside her because of his habit of liking to walk her home. If it was truly a race against time then one of the other Losers would take care of her bike and she would hope on the back of Silver, considering that it went so damn fast.

She crosses her arms over her chest.

"What are you doing here? I thought-"

He, quite literally, crashes into her. He was standing a half foot away at the start of her sentence and by the end, he was moving forward to throw his arms around her.

The force of that collision makes her stumble back a step before getting her bearings and holding him up from where he's slumped over on her, his chest shaking against her's with what she can only assume are tears. The sides of the robe she stole from Bev are gripped into tight fists as he embraces her with all he's got, the sudden contact something she isn't sure she can handle. There's a very specific reason she's avoided him these past few days of Warner's recovery and if she's around him for long enough she might just break. It takes all of the self control she has in her to not hug him back.

"Are you okay? Why are you-"

That's when the smell hits her.

It's not difficult to miss the stinging stench of liquor on a drunk person and it's so strong that she's surprised she didn't catch it the moment that door swung open. He's stumbling trying to get back up on his feet to the point where he slides to his knees instead, his arms firmly wrapping around her legs.

Her hands squeeze his shoulders to try to wrench him off of her legs to no avail. It's like when their son was a toddler and would hide behind her legs when he met new people, shy little one he was, or when he grew tired or afraid. That's what he is right now, it occurs to her, a frightened little child.

"You smell like tequila, are you drunk?" Y/N asks even though she knows the answer based off his appearance and smell alone, "Jesus Christ, please tell me you didn't drive your car here, you could've gotten hurt-"

"R-R-R-Richie dropped me off."

"Bill..."

He's hammered, but not too much to miss, for what feels like the first time this whole trip, the pure concern and worry in her voice for him. Still, he scowls into her thigh and his shoulders lift with every soft cry he lets out. That worry doesn't mean anything, he tells himself, she'd be worried about anyone driving in this condition. He doesn't matter like that to her anymore and he sure as hell will never matter to Warner in that way ever.

It's all so confusing and painful and he wants it to be over. For the week to end and for them to go back to their lives so he won't have to feel this way. So he can again forget. So he doesn't have to relive the memories what he can no longer have.

Some of it is still lost to him. There's still a loose thread dangling on the depths of his mind and heart that he simply cannot reach, teasing him. Why did he forget? When? When had they been apart long enough for him to be able to forget the only two things that mattered?

The feeling of him still touching her is electric and it's too much. It's too much to process between what he says and his hands holding the backs of her thighs.

"I m-m-muh-miss him so much. You have n-no idea h-h-how much I miss him, Y/N, he-he's so perfect. I c-can't believe he's ours. He's so-H-He's so," He stammers out without taking a single breath, "He's s-s-s-"

The breeze ruffles his hair at the same time she dares to card her fingers through the head of auburn locks, shutting her eyes at the sheer emotion that doing so opens up within her. It comes so naturally to her, touching him and being held by him. It comes so naturally that it almost slipped by her that this isn't appropriate and that she shouldn't be letting him hug her any longer, but, then again, he's sobbing into her legs and is so broken up over it all that she fears what ignoring this plea for help will do to the man. But it's him leaning into the touch as she runs that hand along his cheek, brushing into it like her cat brushes up against her legs for attention, that convinces her to slide down to her knees to be face to face with him.

 _He won't remember this in the morning_ , she reminds herself,  _he won't remember what's said, so I might as well stay and comfort him_. Those blue eyes are shining with tears when she lifts his chin to meet her gaze.

"I know you do, I know, I know, it's just-"

She's cut off for the third time by his drunken eagerness and he squeezes where his hands are still gripping the tops of her knees, "Y-Y-Y-You don't unders-s-stand! I m-m-muh miss him, I miss you, I-"

And he stops short, his face twisting with that sadness roiling in the pit of his stomach as he looks at her with nothing but longing in his eyes. It's unbearable. On both ends, it's pure agony.

What he says next is swift and heart-stopping and what he does after it makes the world stop spinning.

"I love you!"

His lips taste like the salty tears that had fallen down his face. They're wet, they're smooth. They taste absolutely abhorrent from the liquor, but when Bill rushes forward and nearly sends her falling again with how hard he kisses her, she barely notices that taste.

God, the unleashed mammoth amount of restraint and tension all built up over the last eleven years that comes collapsing down on top of them when she feels his mouth moving numbly on her's is purely immeasurable. It's like grasping at the stars for the short, unbelievable moment it takes before she comes to her senses. His hand trembles where it cups the edge of her jaw and he lets out the most vulnerable, sweet little moan she's ever heard him make at the feeling of her body reacting on its own accord to him kissing her; the way her hands shot out to his shoulders, the gasp that catches in her throat, at the fact that her first instinct was to kiss him back. It's that brief second before she remembers reality that her heart sings with elation. It's the before that is everything she's dreamt of and more, it's the before that sends her reeling. All it takes is one kiss and she's right back there. To ten years ago right before everything fell to pieces and there was a world where she woke up to him every single morning. A world without fear or distance or darkness. A world where they belonged to one another.

It only lasts a second.

She's stronger than she looks to him (you'd be an idiot to work in one of the most dangerous cities in the country without knowing how to defend yourself) because all it takes is one hard shove to push him off, to pull him away so she can scoot back a few feet and put distance between them once more. Everything inside of her is screaming at full volume, all of her repressed memories and her plans of avoidance are rattling around her mind wildly. He kissed her, he kissed her- _he kissed me!_

Her hands are still holding him in place by his shoulders when she finally speaks, panting, "You're drunk," a shake of the head at his searching eyes, "You don't know what you're doing, you're drunk."

How that had felt-it's as if he'd set her on fire for real this time when they kissed. Every square inch of her skin is tingling in the aftermath of it and she doesn't realize, but she's now shaking as badly as he is. It's only a few more days until they have separate lives again, she tells herself even though it's not at all true, once the week is over it will be okay.

His head is shaking frantically. His mouth opens and closes in desperation for something to say.

"I-I-I meant it though," Bill cries, a hand lifting to cradle her face, "I love you s-s-so much and I-I-I-"

There's the sound of him swallowing back his salvia and then he's staring at her. Looking at her the way he used to, the way he did many years ago, and it breaks her. The true, unashamed love there breaks her.

"I-I-I-I've s-slept with more p-p-people than I can keep track of in the last decade, to the point w-where it almost became a g-g-g-game. It's like I was trying to fill this void in me that I c-c-couldn't get rid of nuh-no matter how hard I tried," He gasps, "I couldn't outrun h-h-how badly it hurt to l-lose you and I d-d-didn't even remember you! I thought that m-maybe it was just me being nostalgic about what we had as k-k-kuh-kids, but when you walked into Mike's living room I think my heart just _knew_ -" He has to stop and let out the choked sob that was begging to be released at that.

"Breathe, Bill, remember to breathe," She whispers, rubbing up and down his shoulder supportively.

And now she's crying with him. Slowly, a tear rolls down her face. The air around them is warm and the sky is washed with hues of pink and gold and red in the midst of dusk falling upon them. It paints him, despite how sadly he looks over at her, in a beautiful light. His red hair is vibrant under the colors of the setting sun and his face glistens with where those tears are landing on his pale cheeks, it makes looking at him through all that he confesses that much more difficult.

His thumb wipes away that teardrop resting on the edge of her jaw.

"My heart recognized you and-and underneath it all, I think I've loved you this w-whole t-t-time. So when you s-shut me out at the hospital, after it all came back and I had just gotten you both back, I didn't know what to d-d-d-do. I k-know you don't owe me anything and I know I must be m-making an a-a-ass of myself by even saying anything, but I don't-I don't," Bill's bottom lip wobbles as he tries to find the words, "I don't know what t-to do..."

Silence, worse than any she's ever experienced before, plagues them. It's utterly quiet and the sound of the breeze rustling the trees mixed with the distant sound of children laughing far off is all that eases it.

There's too much to work through, too many thoughts swirling in her mind with every second she lets pass of them staring at each other with watering eyes. There's still a voice yelling at her through all of it to take her hands from his shoulders and ignore everything he said. It's the same voice that urged her to say no when he asked her if she wanted to talk when they were sitting outside of the hospital room the other day, same one that made her repeatedly push that one painful memory behind a locked door every time it tried to rear it's ugly head at her.

Y/N sniffles and breaks their eye contact, tearing his hand away from her face with that last fighting morsel of self-control.

Her voice is raw, "We can start with taking you inside. You're hammered and you don't know what you're even saying, you need to sleep this off because I can't-" He watches her eyes clench shut as she tries not to break down into complete hysterics, "I won't talk about this until you're sober because you can't even stand up, let alone comprehend _this_  right now."

That's it for him. The breaking point, even if he may not remember how it feels, her utter avoidance, when morning comes it still hurts so terribly. But he nods anyway. He forces himself to respect it, because if she doesn't want to talk about it he can't and would never try to make her.

His mind goes blank through the next few minutes, so much so that he doesn't hear what she says through the process of helping him up from the porch ground and guiding him into the house. Every step he takes is a stumbling struggle, but she manages to drag him through to the couch. His heartbroken, drunk mind couldn't even understand that she wasn't shutting him out and that she simply didn't want to accept what he said because he's too intoxicated to consent to that kiss, to even truly mean what he's slurring. To him, it was another cold deflection and refusal, but in reality, it was her wanting to do this the right way. To wait for this talk for when he's not so hammered that he can't walk without help or when he's not involuntarily speaking every word that comes to mind due to the lack of filter she remembers alcohol giving him.

Bill is already asleep by the time she pulls off his shoes and brings him a blanket.

-

The house is quiet, Warner decides, far too quiet.

Waking up in the hospital, nobody else in the room, with only the sound of the heart monitor he was hooked up to to fill the eerie silence, was downright horrifying. His head was pounding and every muscle ached and he kept calling for his mom. She showed up after a minute of his cries for her, apologizing profusely and saying she only left to get a bottle of water while she hugged him close to her chest. Never in his life had he been so thankful for his mother. Never.

It took the entire rest of that day of lying idle in that hospital bed before they let them leave with strict orders to keep him bedridden, hydrated, and well rested until his concussion heals, among his other various injuries he acquired during the time he spent without supervision in Derry.

They talked for hours before leaving the hospital.

About how he got to Derry, It, his new friends, what happened in Neibolt, and, inevitably, about Bill.

She listened to what he had to say about everything he'd gone through in the preceding four days before the last topic came up. Let him get it all out without interruption before telling him the whole story, starting from the beginning. Then, it was his turn to listen. Since he already knew most of it from the journals-that he offered to her in case she wanted to give them a read-she didn't spare any details about their encounters with It. The rest, she filtered through for his sake since, after all, he's her thirteen-year-old son, but it was all uphill from there until the end. Until that one last painful thing that Bill won't let himself recall, out of pure survival instinct. And Warner cried too, once she began explaining when things ended between them and why. When she explained that it wasn't Bill abandoning them, but It making him forget.

And that small detail changed everything. The fact that he didn't have a deadbeat absent father who never wanted him. He sat there, nearly unable to keep himself from crying harder, as she told him that he had a father who loved him very much. That he would have gone to hell and back for him if need be. That there was suddenly no reason anymore for Warner to not want him.

That last, terrifying thought hasn't left him since. It's still lingering in the back of his mind now.

He groans groggily and stretches against the mattress, using his feet to kick the heavy pile of warm blankets from his sweating limbs. The window was cracked open all night, defeating the purpose of the blessing that is air conditioning, so he was tossing and turning through the heat for hours before finally deciding to "get up" for the day. (If you consider walking downstairs to eat and use the bathroom before coming right back to rest in bed all day "getting up"). He's still wearing the clothes he changed into when they first got here upon him being discharged; his typical overworn t-shirt with pizza grease stains on the front from last night and a pair of flannel pajama pants that he has to tie really tight for them to stay up on his hips. Being the tall, gangly early teen he is, it's rare that anything at all fits him so he doesn't mind. Even when the legs rest on the floor with every cautious step he takes down the stairs, he shrugs and figures he'll grow into his height one day rather than remaining a spindly juncture of long limbs for the rest of his life.

Nothing seems different on his walk through the kitchen and the time he spends pouring himself a bowl of the cereal on top of the fridge. It's only that alarming silence that throws him off. With every morning, or more like mid-afternoon for him in today's case, came with it the boisterous losers and their conversations you can hear from across the house. It came with his mom, Bev, Mike, and him all sitting down to eat together every night, and depending on if they come over then the Losers too. All of them but one. The only one he won't let come over.

It's still difficult to acknowledge Bill for what he is to him and even now, as he strolls out from the kitchen to the living room with a bowl of Frosted Flakes between his hands, he isn't sure he's ready yet.

But that doesn't matter when he lays eyes on who's passed out on the couch a few feet away from him once he's crossed the entryway connecting the kitchen and living room.

"W-What the fuck?"

Warner scrunches up his nose at the smell coming off of him after he takes that first step near the sleeping man and shakes his head.

_Gross._

His body is too long to fit casually on the couch so his legs are curled up beneath him in a way that can't be comfortable and with that, Warner assumes that's who he gets his height from. In sleep, his face is softer, as if when he's unconscious the weight that seems to hang on his shoulders lessens significantly. Despite the obvious stench that clings to his clothes, he looks overall more peaceful this way and it's easier to look at him when his eyes are closed. Having to look at them when his own are so clearly a carbon copy...it's difficult. It makes getting used to him harder. So, he quite likes facing him like this; his face squished against the couch cushion and eyes shielded from view.

Not noticing the people that walked in from the dining room, he balances his cereal bowl in one hand and frees the other to reach out. The tip of his finger barely grazes the man's cheek, but he yanks it back as if he'd been shocked the moment the contact is made anyway. But he doesn't wake and he's sure not even an earthquake could wake the man now that he reaches out again, repeating the same action but this time with more pressure. His cheek is squishy when he pokes it, though he's not sure why he expected it not to be.

Someone behind him laughs.

"Are you  _poking_ him?"

He whips around.

Standing across the room, side by side, are his mom and Beverly Marsh. The latter is who asked him what he was doing, but he shakes his head even though he was caught in the act, suddenly finding his bowl of frosted flakes to be the most interesting thing in the world.

He shifts uncomfortably in his spot and mutters, directing it at his mother, "He s-s-smells like the people who come out of the place next to your w-work do."

Their encounter is quite anticlimactic after what happened after he left Neibolt, with the running to her and meeting eyes with his long lost father he would have expected something more dramatic in store for them rather than seeing him passed out drunk on the couch.

"Don't worry, when he wakes up he's going back to his hotel, you won't have to face him until you're ready," Y/N says.

"He's p-p-p-pretty different from what I expected."

Bev crosses her arms over her chest, smiling, and his mom just nods, something more sullen and distant lingering there rather than the sweet green-eyed gaze his godmother is giving him.

"In a good way or a bad way?" Beverly's voice makes him look back over his shoulder at the man.

He pauses, thinking, then offers, "In a good way, I t-t-think."

The Losers live up to the hype of the stories written about them. For every night he's been here, after they figured out he came of course, they all came to visit him. Whether it's at different times or at the same, it doesn't matter; they all still come over each day to check in on the boy who had been merely a baby the last time they saw him. It's a kindness he hadn't expected. Even with the stories and his mom's retellings of them in the hospital or the conversations they've had whenever he has questions, it still caught him off guard. People aren't typically this accepting.

Everywhere he turns in school someone is staring at him funnily, no doubt because of his birthmark, and then when he has to speak to them they bite back jokes or become impatient with him or, at it's worst, they'll mock him. Most people don't understand what it's like, but they do.

None of them interrupt, rush, or mock him. And instead they encourage him, empower him, and he finds it much easier to speak with them because of it.

They're just as wonderful as they were described in the journals Rowan found-

He stops.

Rowan.

She's been waiting for him this whole time, how had he forgotten to call her or invite over to talk over all that's happened since they last saw each other? His heart races wildly and he begins to wonder if she's okay or if the monster that mutilated Jack has gotten her too. And at that thought, his blood runs cold. The mere idea of Rowan being hurt by that thing makes him tense.

There has to be some way he can contact her, even if he doesn't know her number by heart he knows she gave it to him at one point in time and all he has to do is look.

"Good m-m-morning," A voice behind him makes him jolt.

A  _stutter._

Warner  _runs_  from the living room.

Thankfully, he's quick enough to reach the kitchen and duck behind the wall before Bill has the chance to notice him. From Beverly's end, it's almost funny how fast he ran from the room, but Y/N finds it hard to focus on anything other than where he's now sitting, awake, on the couch.

His hair is sticking out in different directions and strands of red are matted together from him tossing and turning into the pillow, but she can't keep her eyes off of him all the same. Because all she can think of when she looks down at him is what he said and did last night. He was drunk, yes, but it still kept her from sleeping. It still made her anxious for the moment he would finally wake and they would have to face what was said. Then, in comes Warner and he pokes him and now that moment is here. He groans as he stretches and her eyes follow his arms stretching up above his head, muscles flexing with the movement in a way that makes her want to run her hand down the length of his shoulder all the way to his wrist.

Y/N looks down, scolding herself for letting that urge slip past her defenses, and clears her throat.

"Are you sober now?"

The blue eyes that snap up to meet her's fill with a feeling she cannot decipher. Does he remember what he said? Does he remember kissing her or has it all slipped out of grasp like so many of his other memories of her has? To her, how much he recalls is still a mystery and there's much left up to her imagination; whether or not he remembers all of the story or bits and pieces, whether or not he truly feels the way he said he did last night or if it was the liquor talking. Nothing that he said or did when he was drunk can be counted on and yet she still feels herself clinging to it against all reason, against all hope.

"K-K-Kicking me out already?" Bill asks, "I p-promise I'll be gone in a minute. Just let me eat something, I drank on an empty stomach and practically threw my guts up in the middle of the n-night."

But underneath it all, he's silently wondering how he got to Mike's house. The last thing he remembers is Richie walking into the bar and then stumbling, head pounding, into the bathroom at two in the morning to throw up the contents of his stomach. He knew he must have gotten blackout drunk because most of the events preceding him gagging, hunched over the toilet, were lost on him and everything that came up burned his throat.

He tries to keep his expressions blank with every glance she throws his way, but there's something off. Something that's changed in the way she's looking at him that makes him wonder; what  _did_  happen when he was drunk?

Tequila, alternatively named "Idiot oil", has this habit of ridding him of any filter he has and all he does is say every little thought that pops to mind when it has its hold on him.

Her arms are crossed over her chest, "I-uh-Warner's up and about, so it might not be a good idea to stay here. We can get you fed and then take you back to the hotel," then she pauses, as if too afraid to say it out loud.

The tension that fills the space between them is too much, so much so that Bev has to turn and walk over to the kitchen where Warner is hiding/shoveling back spoonfuls of cereal at a dangerous pace in an effort to get the hell back upstairs before he's seen. It isn't that he doesn't want him in his life, he's still working through that one, but it's all too new to him right now. It's only been this past week that he's known who Bill is and it's too much information to process in a short amount of time. But curiosity gets the better of him and for a second, he chances a peek around the wall at him, awake and aware of his surroundings rather than passed out snoring against a couch cushion. He uses this as a chance to observe him, to see what he's like when he doesn't know he's looking (even if all he sees is the back of his head).

Y/N takes in a deep breath before she finishes, "Plus, we need to talk and I don't think you'll want to do that with our nosey friends and son eavesdropping," a pointed warning stare in the direction of Warner and Beverly where they were leaning around the corner to watch has them scuttling off frantically in the other direction, Bev biting back laughter, "It'll be a while."

Her hand outstretched to him, an invitation and a peace offering.

Bill's throat bobs as he swallows, searching her face for a sign that leads to an opposite place, but there's nothing but honesty there.   
Still, he opens his mouth to speak, brows raised.

"You don't h-hah-have to-"

She, doing something she seldom does, interrupts him and that tells him this must be serious if she's cutting him off, "I  _want_  to."

Again, there's that question of what he did last night to warrant this shift. When they last spoke at the hospital, she wanted nothing to do with him, seemed more keen on sending him off to be eaten by It rather than have this conversation with him, yet now she wants to. Quite desperately, if what he's picking up on is correct.

He takes her hand.

-

The wait is worse than anything.

Both of them, accepting the fact that they have to wait for him to eat, then endure the drive over, and few other tasks that feel insignificant in comparison to what they're to talk about. Hell, he doesn't even know what it is they're going to discuss and he's antsy to get to it.

It's a production, the drive over, walking up the three flights of stairs to get to his room, and then waiting while he showers.

He figured it was a better time than any to get rid of the god awful stench that clung to him from when he'd nearly drank his weight in tequila and, unbeknownst to him, came stumbling up the porch to profess his undying drunken love for her.

The water is so scorching, it steams when it hits his skin, but he doesn't mind it and scrubs at his skin vigorously until patches of it along his arms and chest are flushed red from both the heat and irritation combined. It feels good to be clean. In the time he spent worrying himself sick over Warner and wallowing in what all of the years old memories made him feel, he hadn't showered for three days. Nothing else mattered to him outside of his family and he spent every minute of it trying to figure out a way to fix what was falling to pieces around him. She didn't want him, that much he could gather after their encounter at the hospital, but that wasn't it. That and the fear he has for his son, for his survival, tore him to pieces.

He rolls his neck to the side underneath the spray of the showerhead, groaning at the relief it gives to the knots in each muscle there. Without bending down, the water sprays at the top edge of his chest, right at his collarbones, but he adjusts to the height of it for the sake of dulling that ache, for once wishing he wasn't so tall.

It takes three washes for him to feel clean and smell human again, along with a few thorough rounds of brushing his teeth before the smell of alcohol and the oatmeal he ate at Mike's is fully replaced by the minty notes of the hotel's complimentary toothpaste that's nearing the edge of empty by the time he's done with it.

The mirror is steamed up by the time he gets out, dripping water onto the bath mat laid in front of the too-small shower, dries himself off, and wraps the towel around himself. He clears a space on the mirror with his hand and the condensation dribbles down the length of his forearm before he has the chance to wipe it away. His hair nearly looks brown when it's wet, he notices, something he typically doesn't bother to pay attention to when he sees his reflection after showering. Either brown or an incredibly dark shade of red, because he can see glinting strands of auburn poking out here or there where he managed to dry it off better than other places. And his freckles are less intense nowadays, rather than the full-on clusters of them that trailed along his shoulders from his cheeks. They're now more subdued, less in-your-face, as he's grown older and older.

It feels like only yesterday he was a boy as young as his son. Freckled and tanned-as tanned as his naturally pale self could get-on the cusp of everything at such an age. Before Georgie, it felt like he had it all ahead of him. It felt like the world was at his fingertips and was one decade until adulthood away. Until he heard those screams over the pouring rain battering his window pane and it all way turned upside down. From that point on it felt like life wasn't ahead, it was happening. In a _right here, right now,_  kind of way that had him hurtling from one day to the next. Most children felt a sense of immunity from the horrors of the world, but not him. He felt his mortality as if it were a physical being standing beside him and toed the line of it every chance he got. So reckless, so unflinchingly brave it bordered on stupidity, how had he not died?

The sound of something out in the bedroom catches his attention and reminds him.

Right, that's why; he had the Losers. Through everything they were there and through everything, because of everything he'd gone through and the rate at which it forced him to mature, he found her. A part of him wonders if he ever would have been with her if it weren't for those pivotal few months of summer. They were friends, but not in the same way they were when they walked out from the sewers that day. It changed them. It is what shoved them onto this track in their lives and he doesn't know how to feel about it.

The soft patter of his feet on the tile, then the bathroom light switching off, is what draws her from the pits of her thoughts.

Y/N was sitting, waiting for him to be done, on the edge of the neatly made bed she found upon entering the room those forty minutes ago.

It's a cozy little inn. The "lobby" (if you could even call it one) had couches along its walls and pitchers of water at the front desk where she grabbed a glass on their way in. If memory serves her well, it's family owned and easy to see that by the care with which everything around here is done. There was a note left on his pillow to let him know they restocked the towels and changed the sheets while he was out and it was signed by name, most likely someone around here who possibly knew little Bill Denbrough growing up who saw to it that he was treated well here. Not counting the visiting Losers' Club though, the rest of the hotel seems to be vacant. Derry isn't the place one jumps at to visit and despite its charm when you don't know about the whole child murder thing, it goes unnoticed by the general public.

It's secluded. A better alternative for this inevitable talk to the commotion over at Mike's.

"All clean."

The sweet sound of his voice makes her tear her gaze from the note the staff left that was resting on her lap and up to where he is; standing against the door frame with a towel secured around his hips and arms crossing over his chest. It's a nervous gesture. Out of anticipation and fear, he keeps his arms crossed protectively in front of himself. He's still slightly damp, skin shining as if he were in a hurry to get out here after all they've waited through, and she shifts uncomfortably just looking at him.

Sober Bill is a lot easier on the eyes (a lot less smelly and sad too), so this time she doesn't feel herself wanting to comb out his hair or throw him a fresh set of clothes-though his state of undress is distracting enough to make her want to tell him to put some on. Instead, she's clueless. On what to do or say or want to do. There's nowhere else to go but forward, plunging down into what she's avoided this whole time.

She can barely stand the eye contact they're making, so she stands up abruptly and pulls a chair from the desk in the corner of the room to be sitting in front of the bed's end.

With a subtle thump of the chair meeting the carpeted floor, she mutters, "Have a seat," and it makes his nerves spike.

But he listens and isn't annoyed by the command, instead, he's glad at least someone knows what's going on lately. When they first met up at the diner for breakfast on their second day here, there must have been a part of him that knew she wasn't as lost about their past as he was. There were clues everywhere he turned, she was dropping them every few seconds and they all flew over his head. But the second he saw that boy running for his life from Neibolt, it hit him and those clues matched together into one complex puzzle he's been trying to piece into place for eleven years to no avail. All that's missing now is one piece. One heartbreaking, little piece.

They sit facing each other; her on the bed, him in the chair. For a while, it's quiet, until,

"W-W-Why did I forget I had a kid with you?" Bill asks, all of the sudden as if he couldn't bear to hold it in for another cursed second, "Why did I forget you? From what I can remember, we were inseparable and I wouldn't have ended our marriage no matter what happened if he were in the p-p-pi-picture..."

It's been four days and already, he loves Warner more than he's ever loved anything before, including her. Nothing can compare to the hard-wired, complete love he has for that kid in his heart. The second they met eyes when he ran out covered in blood and guts, screaming for his mom, it was powerful enough to bring everything back and he remembered. He remembered how wanted and loved he was before he was even conceived, he remembered the first time he touched him and held him. It all came back at one point or another.

Then, there's her.

There's this instantaneous, overwhelming connection he felt to a woman he didn't know when they were standing in the Hanlon's kitchen together. It was a feeling. A thread connecting to something bigger than himself, that he tugged on when he watched her get up and walk to get their friends their drinks. It was a pull she had on him that he couldn't help but give into and already, only on the first night, it came from him without a struggle. I miss you. He didn't know her, but he missed her and somehow those three words were the beginning of everything.

She finds it difficult to say, but her mouth moves anyway, "You're sure you want to hear it all?"

Bill finds it questionable that she even has to ask that, that it isn't an immediate yes on his part, but nods anyway.

"I need to hear you say yes."

Without any hesitation, he stammers, "Y-Y-Yes."

The room feels colder the moment she begins to think back to that time ten, nearly eleven, years ago when everything was going smoothly. It makes her shiver to go near that door she keeps locked and shut in the back of her mind that she'll have to venture behind for this. For him.

His hair is starting to dry in those wet patches by the time she works up the courage to speak.

"I guess it started when I got pregnant again," Y/N says and bites her lip to keep the emotion that talking about it after so long evokes. He stills from where he sits across from her, "We both wanted more kids and so we didn't bother with protection or anything once Warner was a year old."

There's a hint of a smile on her face now at the thought of that time in their lives and he lets the words hit home slowly, grasping for them in his own mind until they're there again. He tries to share that nostalgic bit of happiness with her, but it's hard to when there's still much to be discovered and explained. It's hard to be happy looking back on it when he knows the end comes after.

Her exhale is shaking and that alone makes him tense.

"It took no time at all for me to get pregnant again and soon we were right back to where we'd been with him a year before," A look in his direction, right into his eyes in the way that makes him glad to be sitting down, "We were so happy, Bill, I-You were so happy. You weren't weighed down by anything or worried or upset, it was like nothing could get to you. Me too, it was just-it was like heaven."

If there were such thing as heaven taking physical form, it would have to have been the year and nine months following Warner's birth. For once, life wasn't an endless trek through the pitfalls of their childhood trauma and grief, it was bright. It wasn't survival, it was living, and it was divine. It's murky, but it's there for him, and, for the most fleeting of moments, he can understand what she means. Can feel what they once felt.

She turns her head away to look down at the duvet, even runs a hand along the carefully made blanket to distract from where he's sitting, watching in front of her. Every word is like thick glue coming out from the back of her throat.

"And you were," Her soft laughter echoes through him, "you were  _you_. You were there every night talking to her when my belly got huge and you told her stories, told her about her brother too and helped him feel her kick. I saw myself living with you for the rest of my life, I loved you so much and our little family was shaping up to be so beautiful. We got our own place months before she was due-"

He cannot help himself. It's impossible to keep it in now, "Where is s-she?"

Unknowingly, with that question, Bill kicked that locked door in her mind wide open and she completely  _breaks_. Every mask she'd kept in place, every white lie and deception, it crumbles away and leaves in it's place the jagged broken pieces of what's been left of her in these last torturous years since that jolting fall from grace.

The sound of her crying makes his arms uncross, about to move for her on that strong pull, that instinct, before his common sense halts him.

"It hurt so badly," Y/N chokes out, "It still hurts. I-I didn't even know it," She lifts her head up and meets him with her face wet with tears, "I thought she was sleeping, she didn't kick as much as Warner did, so I didn't think anything was wrong."

"J-Jesus Christ," He murmurs, his face contorting with emotions he didn't know he could feel and everything clicking in one horrifying realization.

"If I just went in instead of thinking it was nothing..." A sharp cry, "She died inside me. One day, everything was perfect and we were so happy, then, it all changed. That next morning it felt like something was off. We were eight months in and she was healthy, but I almost thought I was going into labor. So, we went to the hospital to check on her and when they told us she didn't have a heartbeat-"

" _No_..."

It  _hurts_.

It hurts like blistering, scorching pain all over his body and it takes everything in him to not reach out to her for support. He stays sitting there, tears falling down his cheeks one after the next, and watches her work through every bitter memory that he's being hit with as she tells him the last story.

The last missing piece.

"I gave birth to her, her name was Emmy because I picked Warner and you wanted to call her Em, but she didn't-she wasn't alive. And it was hell. I think I lost my sanity, Bill, having to hold her when she was like that. There wasn't any crying or movement. There was nothing, but silence."

Silence as there is now.

The town itself pauses for them and gives them the kindness of having this time to talk through this. They're both crying, but it's him who speaks next.

"Why did we-I d-d-d-don't understand how we split up," He says through his tears, "Did Emmy dying do that? I'm s-s-suh-sorry, I don't remember how I ever forgot you."

"I swear I didn't mean for it to be like this," Y/N responds, quickly, defensively, "I didn't mean to cause this, but I did-"

His sobs are making him tremble, "You didn't do anything, n-n-nobody's to blame for-"

"I left!"

If anything stunned him the most tonight, it would have to be that.

The tension, that ever-present third being that follows them everywhere they go, goes taut between them at that confession. And this is it for him, when it all, the entirety of those last six months that followed her death, come slamming into him at full force.

Bill sits up straighter, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes despite the fact that they keep coming. The pregnancy, the stillbirth, the aftermath, and then the forgetting. The years of endless, dial-toned life altered by the creature across the country that kept him in the dark. They were all caused by this. By the distance she put between them following that traumatic experience. Those nights he spent chasing after a fleeting feeling that would pass over him, characters he would write that felt all too familiar and real; they were all her. They were all the woman he didn't realize had existed and once meant everything to him and that hurts.

She continues on and rambles despite the far off look in his eyes.

"I left and it was supposed to only be a little while. I was still breastfeeding Warner, so we agreed I would take him with me and stay with my parents for eight months, but when I came back you were gone."

In August of 2000, he was living alone. It happened so quickly. The forgetting started slowly, then sped up so fast that he was clueless before the summer was over. Seattle felt like it was crushing him from the inside out and he had to get out of there before he lost it, so he broke his lease with the landlord and moved far away. He was all alone, with nobody to look after but himself so what did he have to lose? (She had come back home later, a few days after he left, and found his wedding ring on the floor behind the sink as if he took it off to shower one morning and it slipped of the porcelain edge and rattled on the tiled bathroom floor at the same moment she slipped from his mind). There was more than enough to live off of with his books. He was fine, life was fine, but they weren't. They were abandoned.  _Neglected_ , that dark abyss in the back of his mind hisses.

"We'd never been apart long enough to realize something like that could happen, but then it did and you left. I called you, but you'd literally uprooted everything and started over. I found your new phone number, thinking you'd had enough and left us, but when I tried to talk you didn't recognize me. The only reason I remembered was Warner. He was my living, breathing reminder. He has your eyes and your stupid, beautiful laugh and every time he laughed at something I felt you there."

He's still drifting away into those memories while she talks and can barely hold on to reality because of them.  _I left, I abandoned them, I_ -

"I don't expect you to ever forgive me. I know it's all my fault. Everything was, Em, us splitting up. I didn't want to talk about it because I knew you'd never be able to forgive me for it!"

Everything stops.

How could she even think that he would be angry? It almost hurts that that was even a thought she had, but everything else outweighs it by a longshot.

"I don't forgive you," He says and she flinches. Too soon, that was too quick of a reaction because he continues on in the next half-second and it makes her shoulders fall with relief, "I don't forgive you because you have n-n-nuh-nothing to be sorry for."

Eleven years ago they were both in an unbearable amount of pain.

For the second time in his life, at merely twenty-nine years old, he felt a loss so deep it took a part of him with it. He lost his daughter. That was far more painful than George's death ever could have been and it dragged him down from happiness in a matter of seconds. Like the darkness of night dimming the light of day-it ebbed and flowed within him as if it were a living creature, that pain. As soon as the words left the woman's mouth to tell them there wasn't a heartbeat, over a decade long stretch of that familiar grief began. And because of how rough it had been for him, because of that grief that lingered even when he didn't remember, he can't begin to imagine how horrible it has been for her. Between losing him, raising Warner on her own, and the sheer agony she experienced when Emmeline died inside her...it was on a whole other level for her.

She had carried their late child in her for hours without knowing it. Then, when morning came and they went to the hospital, had to give birth to her knowing that once it was over it wouldn't be a crying baby girl placed on her chest, but a dead one. That was what the memory he had at the Barrens was, he realizes, of a woman's hand in his falling away to reveal the scar along his palm. It wasn't as casual as he waved it off to be and it wasn't happy, it was the worst day of his life.

There's the sound of her sobbing and repeating, "I'm so sorry!" before he ends it all.

Two words and she's his.

"C-Come here."

And she crashes into his arms, falling into his lap with one last huff, and cries hysterically into his neck.

The weight of her on his lap, cradled into his arms, is simultaneously the most familiar and foreign feeling he's ever experienced, but he welcomes it. He cries with his cheek pressed against the top of her head and wraps her up in his grasp like he's been itching to do this entire trip back to Derry.

"I'm sorry!" Y/N whimpers into his skin, resting her forehead against the warmth radiating from him and savoring it as if he'll cast her away soon, still not understanding any of what he means, still not getting it.

His arms are tightly fixed around her waist as he holds her there without a single intention of letting go. Not even for a second. Instead, he whispers in her ear something that comes up from the depths of his memory, as if he'd said it a billion times before, "Stay," and she cries harder at that word, at every single moment of the past that's tied to it, "Stay," He rubs up and down her back, "Don't be sorry. I'm right here, I don't b-b-b-blame you."

Why doesn't he, she wonders, isn't it her fault? If she had gone in sooner or not left to stay with her parents-

He hugs her tighter and she sighs into where he's cradled her face into his neck.

"You have no idea," She whispers, cries making her voice tremble, "You have no idea how much I missed you. And after last night I just didn't have it in me to keep pushing you away."

Time slows to a standstill when she's in his embrace and it's all too overwhelming for her to truly notice their proximity to one another. They're pressed together close, the smooth fabric of her shirt gliding along his skin with every movement she makes or anytime she squeezes him tighter. Nothing else exists to them outside of these moments, if only for now, and he takes all of the time she needs to stop crying and panting. Through most of it, he whispers soothing words to her and keeps reminding her it's not her fault.

That last piece to the perplexing mystery that is his past has fallen into place.

It's a situation where nobody is at fault, let alone her, and just  _hearing_  her blame herself is painful, so he can't imagine how it must feel for her to genuinely believe she's at fault for the stillbirth and their breakup. Because it is, and still is, more than painful enough on it's own. Oh  _God_ , it aches, like a hole the size of a crater deep in his chest, it's blinding desolation. Losing his little brother when he was a young boy was one thing, but this was a different dimension of loss he didn't know existed until her. Until he remembered what happened to her.

She'd have been twelve years old right now.

Then there's Y/N and Warner.

Not only did he lose their daughter, he lost all of them. For the years he spent on his own, Y/N spent in heartache. And it makes him think back to when they first got here, every question and answer, every deflection and bitter jab he was met with by the woman whenever he seemed to get closer to the past. He had been so confused and angry that he hadn't seen past it to what she gave away with every step she took, every word she said. It's so clear now that he's on the other side of it, but it hadn't been so simple before. The struggle to remember what was lost wasn't an effortless one.

Yet now, here he is. There she is. After all this time...

She's sniffling, breaths no longer labored, and is resting her forehead on his bare shoulder. It's an effort for her to not press a kiss to the skin there, a habit they've no doubt outgrown considering all this time and distance, so she keeps herself tucked in close instead. Settles for appreciating what she gets of him rather than long for what he'd done in a drunken moment of clarity the night before.

His chest hits her's with the sharp rise and fall of his breath.

"What happened last n-n-nuh-night?"

That wasn't what she expected him to first say after that, but, then she realizes, she'd slipped and mentioned it without noticing. So wrapped up in all that's happening, it slipped.

"Are you sure you want to know? You were drunk and probably didn't mean any of it," Y/N whispers, sniffling, smiling through the pain.

And he sighs, figuring he made an ass of himself and pissed her off or tried to talk to Warner which they all know would have led to disaster.

"W-What'd I do?"

Nevertheless, she scrambles for the right thing to say. Her eyes go wide from where she's buried her face into where his neck and shoulder bridge together, not keeping her features still because he can't see her anyway, and he can feel her freeze in his lap.

Last night was a whirlwind of emotion. Between him showing up out of the blue, drunk and crying, and all that had come tumbling out the moment his sense slipped away from him. All of it was what pushed her to this. His unflinching trust in telling her all that he did, even if most of it was due to the liquor, made her double check her own choices. At every turn, she had fought tooth and nail against where this trip was clearly headed. At the Barrens when they fought and said such poisonous things to one another, with every ignored question, and the hospital. When, after he saw their son again and remembered everything, she shut him out out of fear of losing him again. This entire time, she's been pushing him away in the name of protecting herself, but it's beginning to look like that was wrong. She had looked the only love she's ever had in the eye and told herself a life of loneliness and regret was the safer bet. Love, happiness, hope, the prospect of such things had only looked like risks to her. Risks that all lead to loss.

But now she can see things for what they are now and that's the only reason she answers truthfully.

"You knocked on the door and were so drunk you couldn't stand up," Y/N says, "Then you fell down, talked about your sexual history, cried, and kissed me."

At that last part, the distance, or in this case lack thereof, between them is instantly palpable and neither of them can stand the way it feels to be so near while talking about this. Had he known, he would've apologized profusely upon waking up and he almost gets the chance to do so now, before she pulls herself back from where she was hiding her face against him.

The tears are still flowing, but barely now, and her face is flushed only  _thinking_ about what she has yet to tell. His heart begins to race at the way she's looking at him and he silently longs to kiss away every drop that's trailed down her reddened cheeks. He settles for reaching up and wiping them away with the pad of his thumb instead, a soft involuntary noise escaping his throat at the way she leans into the touch. It's startling to see how naturally things work between them. They never have to try for it or suffer through clueless moments of blindly fumbling for what comes next. Instead, it's always there. For as long as he can remember, which is now, thankfully, his entire life, this connection has been there. Complete and utter chemistry that could light up a room and an enviable kind of passion that many chase after fruitlessly for years that they found in each other at such a young age. They grew up together, they changed and stayed together through so many of those horrid, bitter nights that their childhood trauma had induced. How many times had they been told they were lucky to have what they have when, in actuality, it takes work. It takes nights like these, of helping each other through excruciating moments of pain such as the ones they're rehashing in living color right now. It takes having his compassion for her and her resilience. It takes his courage and her heart.

So, in the moment, it's much easier to say than she expected it to be and she calms, looking down right at him.

"You said you were in love with me too," Her voice wavers only once, softly, but not weakly, "I figured to just forget it. I mean, you were completely drunk and after remembering everything?" A shake of the head, "You don't have to apologize anyway, the odds of you meaning it seemed slim to none."

His hands are settled on the inmost curve of her waist and it's setting him on fire, between the eye contact and every place connect, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Bill tilts his chin up to get a better look at her and it's in that moment that he knows what he wants, knows that he's known underneath it all along.

He says only loud enough for it to reach her, despite knowing there's no one else near, "Of c-c-cuh-course I meant it..."

And that's _it_  for her.

The final decision of whether or not it's better to remember or forget, whether loneliness or the risky choice of loving someone with your whole heart is better-internally, she shakes her head-It's not the risky "choice" of loving him, for it had never been a choice, not since she was brought to the edge of death by It and found him there on the brink between here and the other side. It was a presence that followed them everywhere they went, that love that blessed and cursed them. Nevertheless, no matter if it were a choice or not, her heart made that decision a long time ago. In every dream she had of him, in every night she would spend with the other side of her bed empty for someone that would never show nor remember.

She chose love a long time ago.

Y/N's breath catches in the back of her throat at his confession. It's more jarring than the first time he'd said it because this time there's nothing for her to hide it behind. Now all there is is him and her alone in this room with nothing left between them but love.

"Do  _you_?" He asks, flipping the script.

Does she?

It's almost funny, how obvious the answer should be and, yet, he awaits it nervously. As if he doesn't already know- _Does he not know?_

Their eyes are still met in that stare down that is effectively breaking him down into bite-sized pieces.

It's so easy for her to make him melt.

Does she know that? That even with all they've been through and overcome, the separation and all, she still holds his entire heart in those beautiful little hands cupping his face. Feeling her body flush up against his is making him weak as well, but he keeps how much of an effect this touching has on him under wraps for now. At least not until they've covered everything and talked through rest of this.

Her voice, this time, is clipped and he can hear her crying with every word.

"Oh, Bill," Y/N whispers through her tears with a gentle caress of her thumb along the soft skin of his cheekbone, "I never stopped loving you."

Bill's face softens and she sees his eyes clear of that fog that has clouded them this whole time, with the confusion and the faded memory, as he comes to that conclusion; that same decision she'd made for herself in the time they spent apart.

They're staring at one another, her above him, him tilting his head up to look at her, and there's a difference in the space between them now. And he's giving her this look that she recognizes and rejoices at in every atom that composes her, it's the same look he had on his face when they'd been sitting at the edge of the water twenty-six years ago stuck in a phase of hesitancy and tension after she kissed him for the first time, the way he met eyes with her in the seconds before he kissed her again. But he doesn't make the first move, refuses to after what she told him happened the night before. Even after all she'd said, he waits for her and she sees that. Sees that last lingering twinge of doubt and timidity and gives him a gentle nod. Once, twice, she nods; hands bracing either shoulder tighter now as his chin juts out, up at her, as if beckoning her forward and it feels like an eternity before they're both slowly leaning in between the separate lives they've made for themselves to come home.

Their lips brush ever so softly at first and his body is on fire, burning wildly at what is, to him, their first kiss in eleven years. It's an extreme opposition to what their actual first kiss had been like, kneeling together on Mike's porch, their collision having been so forceful and passionate they nearly fell the rest of the way onto the floor. But this one? Despite its benevolence, they can feel in their very bones; the love with which it's driven by. That had been smothered for many years, that had endured horrors most do not experience in their deepest nightmares, that love and the hope, a twin flame to it, flares brighter within them until there's nothing to do but succumb to it. To forget the world and remember each other.

Bill letting out a barely audible noise, the same one she'd heard him make when they kissed on the porch, makes her move in nearer, tighter, until she is pressing up against his damp chest so hard they couldn't get closer if they tried.

When she pulls back, he tries to chase where her lips had been only to find emptiness waiting for him there that prompts him to open his eyes in search for her, not wanting to waste a single second he has her all to himself again. If she wanted to sit here and cry in his arms all night, that's what he would do. If she wanted to kiss him until their lips were numb, he would do it. A decade of loneliness and longing comes crashing back on him all at once.

She can't stand to look him in the eye without wanting to turn away from the truth lingering behind shades of blue and small flecks of gold you can only see if you search for them. The truth she ran from every time he glanced in her direction since they've returned to Derry. The truth that is him still being unconditionally, hopelessly in love with her. But she doesn't turn away. Instead, she gives in to it, to the truth, and lets him move forward to press a kiss to the hollow of her collarbones.

"Stay with me tonight? W-W-We can talk and you can catch me up on everything I've missed f-for the last e-e-eleven years, bed's big enough for two," He murmurs into her skin and punctuates the offer with his lips caressing that spot just beneath the slope where her chin and neck bridge together that makes her head tilt back in a breathless gasp. Then adds, realizing that sounded like a proposition for something much more intense and pulls back from where he'd been teasing her to amend, "I'll keep my hands to myself, I p-promise."

Her laughter fills every corner of his heart with glowing, radiating delight and she looks down at where she sits atop him, running a hand down his chest in thought. Then he watches her catch her bottom lip between her teeth, her head shaking almost unnoticeably, while feeling him beneath the palm of her hand.

"I don't-" Y/N's fingertips brush where the edge of the towel wrapped around his hips rests and she whispers, breathless, "I don't want you to keep your hands to yourself. I want this, I-

Then she's kissing him again, slowly, sensually, only halting to say into his mouth, "I want you..."

After longing for him for all of those lonely years, how could she not? It's hard to breathe with how close they are right now and all she can think about is the way he's stroking the bare stretch of skin between her shirt and jeans or the way it felt when he was kissing her neck like that, asking her to stay the night with him.

"We could die tomorrow and I don't want to-" She sighs, panting heavily, as he waits patiently for her to get her words out as she's always done for him, "Make love to me," a shaking exhale falls from him at that, "I never want to miss you like that again, I love you so much, Bill, I-I-Please, love me."

Without so much as a second of hesitation, he nods. He nods and lets his hand that had been politely perched at the hem of her shirt rub up and down the plane of her back beneath the fabric. It's warm against the naked stretch of skin only covered by where her bra clasps into place.

She's whispering into where they kiss, unable to keep the soft moan in from where their bodies meet, her legs on either side of his hips, and how ready she already is at the feeling of him against her. Her hips press down on him for emphasis and the noise that escapes his throat at that sets her blood on fire, "Love me."

She may have once been his angel, but he's now her salvation.

Bill kisses her with a certain kind of desperation he hadn't let himself have before she gave him the go ahead. It's still a bit slow, that hesitancy from earlier lingering only because of how long it has been. This sort of encounter used to be confident, every placement of hands and lips and limbs sure of their place, but this is wholly different. Almost harkening back to the first time they'd ever done this, it's as if they don't know what to do with themselves no matter how powerful their instincts and urges are when it comes to the other.

He's had his share of lovers in the time he'd forgotten her, but being with her is, has always been, an experience that can't be touched. The mere sounds of her panting breaths and moans into his mouth as their movements intensify, arms tightening around his body and their mouths opening into a deeper, hungrier kiss as they both become increasingly more forceful, the feeling of her smiling amid that passion is what makes his heart skip a beat and then the next and makes his own lips curl up slightly as well. How foreign of a feeling that is, happiness, thrumming through him glowing and glittering like the bubbling sparkle of champagne in your mouth.

Her hips are wider than he last remembered them being and so, when he runs his hands down the slope where her waist and hips meet, his grip on the skin there tightens and it makes her jolt.

Brows raised in amusement, he's looking up at her, both of them pulled back, and asks, "S-Still ticklish?"

The sound of her feigned annoyance at his teasing tone, a roll of her eyes, has him reaching back for that spot again out of spite. She jerks back from his hands when their seize that spot on her body again and her yelping giggle spreads that warmth in his heart out to his entire body.

"Stop it!" Y/N laughs and attempts to worm away from the searching touch of him trying to tickle her, which is working because she can't stop letting out that infectious cackling.

Bill smiles, playing dumb, and shakes his head at her while he continues his attack on her sides.

"What?" He asks.

And that gleefully guilty tone makes her groan through the laughter, wanting so badly to get back at him, but she's been rendered useless.

"I mean it, Bill, stooop!"

Her body is squirming in his arms and it's difficult to keep her there as she jerks and twists from every sharp movement of his hands that send her giggling and gripping his arms for dear life as if to ask him to have mercy on her. But he doesn't and so she pinches him hard enough to get him to let go and that split second of his hold on her releasing is all she needs to scramble off of him.

The hotel room isn't all too large, so there isn't anywhere she has to go but to the side of the room closest to the windows, the other side. Walls spin around her, no doubt from the slight fall she'd taken in slipping off the chair, and she grabs the first thing in sight at the sound of his footsteps approaching around the foot of the bed. They're both still laughing.

His pillow is a slight weight in her hands when she lifts it up above her head and wacks him in the side with it when he nears too close.

"If you try to tickle me again I will hit your stupid little ginger head with this pillow till you're too dizzy to stand," She threatens and he doesn't doubt it, knowing the explosive kind of spirit that lies within her and the usual hatred most people have for being tickled.

But he rushes forward and she panics, screeching and throwing the pillow right at his face. It barely slows him through and he's right behind where she'd jumped up on the mattress to hurry across the bed, snatching her up by her ankles before she can even make it all the way over.

Bill pulls her down across the length of the bed, sheets that had been freshly washed and neatly tucked in by the housekeeper fully disrupted from her scuttling over them, and all it takes is one pull for her to be dragged back to where he's hovered halfway on the bed overtop of her.

And then they're staring at each other, panting breaths falling from them as their laughter begins to die down and they're left with the full weight of what they've endured for tonight and the years preceding it. When he pulled her to him, her shirt had gotten twisted up around her and it hugs her chest tightly in a way that makes the little remaining air he has leave him. In the blink of an eye, after what felt like minutes long of being caught in that unending stare down, his eyes follow her as she reaches down, tugs that twisted shirt up over her head, then unclasps and slips her bra off her shoulders. Without warning, that quickly, she silenced any and all amusement.

Suddenly, the room feels a little warmer and his jaw clenches involuntarily.

She says through her heavy exhales, "I keep thinking I've...I've never been with someone else. I knew you'd forgotten me and it was over with us, but every time I tried, something stopped me."

It embarrasses her.

On top of that, the seizing anxiety that would roil in her gut whenever she did try to be with another person other than him in that torturous stretch of time, she was too busy with life and frightened of intimacy to truly want to try. It was as if she had the exact opposite reaction to it as he did. He tried to screw away that consuming, gnawing void within him that he couldn't trace back to anything in particular, while she sheltered herself to an extreme degree to the point where her only interactions with others happened at work and at home. She went on one date and it ended with her leaving out the back door that she's pretty sure wasn't for customers.

His eyes flicker up and down the length of her body. All the way to where he's knelt between her legs back up along the naked skin of her torso.

Her voice is still breathless.

"You?"

Bill feels her breath hot on the base of his neck and it makes him shiver. His hands are holding on her hips with a grip that's a smidge too tight, but she doesn't mind it. In fact, it's making her antsy.

"I'm t-t-t-thinking about how at the b-beginning of this week you were a stranger a-a-and now I can't imagine my life without you," A brush of his fingertips under the hem of her jeans, "And I can't stand how much I w-w-w-w-" He sighs in frustration, struggling to form the word with the way she's making him feel right now, "w-wan-want you."

His touch trails up the length of her torso, not missing the way her abdomen jerks in when his palm meet the stretch of skin just beneath her rib cage, until it reaches her chest. He runs his thumb over the peak of her nipple, softly, experimentally, and delights in the reaction he gets out of her for it; the subtle whisper of a gasp and the way she moves into the touch.

That's what makes her have to pause and compose herself enough to piece together a coherent thought past every screaming one that urges her to tug him onto her. To dip her hand beneath the fabric of that towel and make him weak in the knees with pleasure. Already she can feel him half-hard through her pants at the apex of her thighs. Her hips move to press up against his erection, earning a hiss through his teeth at the pleasure hitting him for the first time of the night.

Has she any idea how easily she can make him melt? One brush against her through the layers of her clothes and the towel wrapped around him and he's putty in her hands.

"Then take me," Y/N whispers.

The words make his mouth run dry.

How many years has she waited for a moment she never believed in her heart would actually come?

And for him, for the man who lost a piece of himself when the wicked monster that already took so much from him took the only thing he couldn't live without. For the man who had once been the boy who unleashed hell upon It for harming her, who was saved by her in the years following and now saves her right back; this has been a long time coming. Even if he didn't consciously remember, he always belonged to her. His heart has always been her's.

Their returning kiss is enough to send them both reeling.

Bill's hands fit perfectly over her breasts as he crawls further over her, crowding her space, and his weight pins her into the mattress with every breathtaking, absentminded roll of his hips into her's.

Partly, she wonders if she can bear how sensitive she is to every touch he gives her. If she's already shuddering at a little over-the-clothes grinding...She's nearly embarrassed at how easily the heat pools in her underwear.

But they share the same neediness that drives them onward.

He's so hard he's practically out of his mind and she's kissing him, pulling him in close, close, closer until they're pressed in so tightly they share their every breath. One hand cards through his slightly damp hair, fingers curling into the soft tendrils of red until it goes taut from his scalp and he's groaning perfectly into her mouth.

They'd been at odds all week and knocked heads at every turn and yet every second of it was building to this, this utter wildfire of a collision.

It had been eleven years of blindly searching through the darkness for one ray of light and now he's drenched in the sunlight. It doesn't matter that he would never truly escape their past, because right now he's alive and there she is. No trick of the mind, no smoke and mirrors, only Y/N. Real.

He ducks to continue that fixed attention onto her neck.

Real. Entirely, beautifully real, and she's better than any dream his mind had managed to create of her that he would forget when morning would come in those lonely years.

Where his lips dragged along the curve of her neck down to where he cups her breasts, there's a shining trail of every wet kiss he'd left there. It's hard not to tremble when he continues down, ghosting over the sensitive skin along the rising slope of her chest.

"Bill."

The sensation of his mouth on her, just barely sucking at the edge of her nipple, makes the hand wrapped up in his hair tug hard and it's not long before she's dipping her hand beneath the towel and wraps a hand around his dick.

He curses, movement faltering at the tight caress of her palm, into her chest and lets his forehead fall on her breastbone, " _Fuck_."

It's her personal favored type of music; the downright beautiful sounds of shuddering breaths and lips on skin and the involuntary, guttural kind of noises that slip from a person when they're caught in the arms, or in this case hands, of their lover. This is when the old, foggy memories of times she spent with him in positions a lot like the one they're in become fresh and vibrant and come back at full force. Perhaps it had always been the natural connection they had, a sort of unspoken communication only reserved for people who've known and lived with each other for as long as they had, but it's clear to understand why those memories are flooded with passion, happiness, and satisfaction she hasn't felt in years since. Until now. Until him, once again and, depending on how the near future pans out, possibly for the last time. It had always been relaxed. It had been trusting, calm, and passionate. But this, despite the unending trust and love they still hold for one another, is a claiming; urgent and intense.

All either of them can think is how much they want this, have wanted this, and every pump of blood that rushes through their bodies pushes them closer.

Need, she finds, is a consuming feeling. She simply must get her hands on him, touch, rake her hands over every accessible inch of skin on him. If only one could live in a moment forever. Because after all of the never-ending loneliness and longing, she feels as if he won't be there if she lets go. That all of this will have been a fantasy and will disappear like ash in the wind as soon as she stops kissing and consuming.

The smooth drag of her hand along the length of him has Bill squeezing his eyes shut against where his face rests on her chest, his own hands barely remembering their previous plans in wake of the sudden spike in gratification. It's spine-tingling and his hands hold her tighter when her thumb grazes over the head; mouth parting open slightly into the soft flesh of her breast at what it stirs up in the pit of his abdomen.

He's hot to the touch, almost heavy in her hand and she runs her fingertips along the underside of him in one painstakingly slow caress that has him groaning into her skin.

Bill's voice is strained, low. It nearly sounds like he's on the verge of moaning with each word. He swallows loudly and warns her, "That's  _very_  s-s-sensitive."

It's not that it didn't feel good, it felt amazing. It's that it feels too good. So much so, he knows that if he doesn't stop her he'll end up coming too quickly into her hand.

And it's lulling, that crushing spark of pleasure she's causing. To the point where he almost gets lost in it. With the first few insistent strokes of her hand, he's already a puddle of hazed desire and curses unintelligibly under his breath at the sensation.

But he gains more composure, forces himself to see through his overloaded senses, and pulls back from her carefully.

There's a look of confusion falling over her face as he's standing upright over her once more. She's about to ask what's wrong before she feels his hands fumbling for the button of her jeans and realizes what he's trying to do.

Bill says, grinning, "To m-muh-much clothes."

She chuckles, nodding in agreement, and reaches down to help him undo her belt to tug the damned things off of her already.

The room is quiet, the only noise coming from them, but outside thunder begins to rumble in the storm clouds that have been steadily converging overhead Derry for the last five days. But if either of them notice the jolting sound, they don't make it known. The well-worn cotton sheets are soft on her skin as she props herself up on her elbows and watches him, biting the inside of his lip, pulling her jeans the rest of the way off her legs far too slowly for her liking. Brushes of his fingertips down the length of her thighs, her knees, her shins, until he pulls them the rest of the way off and lets them drop onto the carpet with a gentle _'thump'_  and then they're caught for a moment. Caught staring at one another with something a lot like clarity in their eyes. One of his knees is braced on the mattress between her legs and the other supports his weight as he breaks that eye contact and lets his gaze fall upon where his hands are holding her hips; playfully roaming his touch along the edge of her panties as if in question.

His thumb moves over where that faded, white scar starts at the hard bump that is her hipbone and he almost frowns. Another time, another place, when they might as well have been different people as well. They were their son's age when she was struck down by It and that action had been the spark to set him off. Little Bill Denbrough had trudged right up to the creature that hurt his best friend, locked eyes with it, and said, " _I'm going to f-f-fuh-fucking kill you_." And then the ritual had begun.

Before then, he hadn't realized the magnitude of what he felt for her. Though sometimes, some part of him far within would feel a nervous kind of delight run over him whenever she focused solely on him and him alone, though there had to have been a piece of him, no matter how small and meek, that had recognized what lurked beneath his very skin for his friend, despite all of the signs he could not see, he hadn't fallen for her until he was sure she was going to be ripped from their lives.

The scar stretching into a line across the width of her hips is the mark of a turning point.

Bill doesn't hold back.

Their kiss is warm and passionate and it makes his heart jump through his chest at her.

Home. That's what she was, will always be. From the very beginning she had been his home and though he can barely breathe through the kissing and his racing heart and everything that overwhelms him so heavily, the sharp breath he takes in through his mouth in the brief second they part for air feels like the first breath of fresh air he's taken since the last memory slipped from his mind.

The steady presence of him above her keeps her from second-guessing or her usual doubts when it comes to intimacy because it's  _him_. In her mind it's practically being screamed at an ear-drum shattering volume; _it's Bill!_ Her mouth on his, her nails scraping along the surface of his bare skin, then flattening to hold him to her by his shoulders. How had she been so foolish in pushing him away? It was as if they'd both been so warped by the years between them that they hardly recognized each other. But now...

Her panties are slipped off her legs with such softness and quick, deft movement that she didn't register their absence until she felt his hand against her inner thigh dropping down from where her legs wrap around him to the place she's been aching for him to pay more attention to. Her mouth parts into his in a barely audible whine at him putting pressure on her clit in wondrous, languid circles.

It's quite the experience for him; the sight and feeling of her here with him against all odds. She's arching into him and he gives his all in return, sliding his fingers down lower, slick with her wetness, and slides them into her without another thought in his head outside of his gratitude for this moment.

" _Bill._ "

For this last kindness that is them being allowed to spend one last night together before they must see to the responsibilities they've wanted to outrun for twenty-seven years. But then she says his name in a fit of pleasure and that thought fizzles, replacing with the crushing need that has been rampant in him this whole time. Desire builds in him at the way she feels around his fingers with every pump of them in and out of her that sends her holding tighter to him each time.

"I-" Y/N struggles to find her voice amid the pleasure and he slows, "I need you," the exploratory grasp of her hand on his back to tug him in close is enough explanation for what it is she means by that, but she whispers up at him, "Please, Bill, I can't stand it anymore-"

He nods against where their lips and noses brush and that's all she needs. It's all the permission she needs to be moving once more.

The bed creaks underneath her weight when she scoots back from underneath him, the naked expanse of her body in front of him a wonder he wishes to touch every accessible inch of, and pulls him to lay properly on the bed (rather than hanging off of the mattress sideways as they were previously) with her. He doesn't object, nor does he have a single complaint with each nudging guide she gives him to where he needs to be. He likes when she leads for him, it takes a surprising amount of weight off of his shoulders and, if his memory serves him correctly, it always has.

Their movements are hasty and neither of them can bear to slow it down. Consuming, hungry desire settles over the two of them like fog and all they are to do is succumb to the consequences of it.

Her hands tug at the towel around his hips that had somehow gone unnoticed by her and his soft laughter is all she can hear as she struggles with getting it untied from his body. But after one particularly forceful yank she manages to get the damned thing off of him and shoves it off the edge of the mattress as if it were hot to the touch, leaving them both naked and desperately needy with nothing in the way at last.

And at this point, it's over for both of them. They simply belong to one another and that's that. With every explosive kiss and collision, it becomes more than apparent to him that she's had him wrapped around her finger for all of their lives. At the start of the week, he hadn't known her and now he's here with her; the moans and the hands against sweat-damp skin and the utter chaos all unleashing on them as she guides him into her and the rest of the world tunes out entirely.

Bill gasps in relief at the feeling of warmth encasing him, tight and wet, with the first push into her he makes inch by inch.

That's when it hits them, when it slows.

Before she knows it she's no longer shutting her eyes through the ache of the unfamiliar thickness of him within her and instead is looking into his eyes, their faces so close that his hot breath on her jaw raises goosebumps along the sensitive skin below it.

Never in her wildest dreams had she let herself believe she would ever be back in his arms. Whether it be like this or not. For years, he was yet another ghost that followed her everywhere she went and though she would have never admitted it, there was never a moment that her love for him had faltered. She wished for it to go away, wished for the forgetting that had cursed the others, but it never came, not truly.

He draws his hips back from her slow, minding how long it's been for her, and breaths out heavily through his nose at the feeling of it.

Her hands hold his face between them ever so gently, as if he were so fragile that even the smallest of movements could break him, and leans up to brush her lips on his. It's the benevolence with which he returns it that lets her know that he knows. It's palpable; how much she's missed him. And he can only imagine how painful it was when she was left to remember everything.

The only one to remember.

Forgetting had been difficult and the process of getting it all back damn near ripped him to shreds, but he still holds that sympathy for her. Even if she remembered and that is everything he wishes he had, he feels bad for her. She had to live with everything, alone, and raised Warner by herself.

So, Bill returns the sweet peck of her mouth on his, the kiss they would have given each other on the way out the door for work in the morning that always lingered a second too long or the sort that they'd share amid the more emotionally-heavy times like this, and buries himself back inside of her with one strong push.

"Y/N," He moans soundlessly into where he's ducked his head to her neck.

With their bodies tucked tightly together she lets herself calm for the first time in ages. In his arms, there's no room for worry or the fate of the future. All that remains is them. Love, blinding in its light, sickeningly sweet with its pleasure. And it's nearly unbearable how good it feels to bask in that light.

Hair spills onto the pillow around her and his hand brushes it back from her face as he moves his hips against her's, romantically, tenderly, and her head tilts back in response. He sucks at the spot along her neck that makes her crazy and writhe against him needily. With every nip of his teeth that catches her skin, he presses a kiss there to soothe the mark.

She breathes, "I love you," and the words connect them together further.

There's no way he'll be able to endure saying it back with how bad he'll stutter on every word, but he tries anyway, the sensation of her around him increased tenfold now to the point where he can hardly stand it.

"L-L-L-L-Luh-Love-" but it's too much and so he settles for a kiss instead, every word he's unable to get through a force she can feel through every second of it.

Though he isn't particularly religious, after all he's seen and experienced on the other side without running into any God besides a turtle, he can't help but want to thank god for the unspoken communication they have. It never mattered to her that he stumbled on words or sometimes, when his stutter got really bad, he couldn't speak at all because there was always another layer to the way they communicate. It's on a deeper, more final level than anything else they can imagine. And for the longest time, there was nobody who could understand him in the way she once did. Though he didn't remember her, he found himself disappointed when he realized that he couldn't simply project how he feels to people the way he seemed to be capable of doing with her. He's not sure if it's an otherworldly sort of power they'd gained when they fought It as children in that other place or if it's their time spent together, but it's there.

That's why she can still feel it, hear him say it though the words never physically came out.

 _Love me_. A request and a promise.

Y/N makes good on that request.

His hands hold onto the small of her back for support when she nudges him up, still entangled with him completely, until he's sitting on his knees and she's straddling him; her breaths turning into pants at how deeply he's seated in her now.

At this angle his abdomen brushes that bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs each time. That's enough to make her have to bite down on his lip when he thrusts up into her hard enough that she knows she'll wake in the morning with a dull ache. Her arms are loosely wrapped around his neck, hands digging into his shoulder blades with every intensified movement they make into one another, and she shudders when he mouths at her breasts amid the chaos.

"Bill."

The word is a warning and a sound of pleasure that comes from her without her permission, without thought. But she cannot help it. Every sound, every kiss, it's all fueled by the loneliness with which she lived without him and it's hard to believe he's truly here. And every so often she wonders, but then he's right there again; lips on soft skin, heart beating through his chest against her's, hard, throbbing flesh filling her up again and again. He had always been a caring lover. The kind of lover she always felt that she might not deserve. Bill had a way of making you feel on top of the world when he merely looked at you the right way and so it's safe to say, with all he's doing to her now, she feels as if she might burst out of her skin it's so staggering.

And, underneath it all, there has always been a part of him that knew it would end this way. With her and him, as it had once begun. They were fated, he decides, she was always the one he was supposed to end up with and they were put together for a purpose. Whether or not it's a purpose he can understand, he doesn't know, but there had always been something guiding them towards the other like the sharpened tug of gravity itself. After all, it all began after they ventured beyond their world. What they have all started in the second it took for It to try to kill her, when he stepped up to it with cold, frozen rage in his eyes and promised it death.

He can feel her tense as she nears her end, her naked chest rising and falling rapidly against his own and every muscle in her body flexing in anticipation of that beautiful tension in the pit of her stomach that curls like an asp lying in wait. Her hips meet his for every hard rut he makes into her trying to chase that indescribable bliss and he's murmuring incoherently into her skin.

She's hanging onto that edge between everything and nothing and everything he does sends her closer. And it doesn't matter, their past mistakes and the argument at the Barrens, all of the past is wiped away clean because they're here and that's all that matters. The closer she gets, the more intoxicated she becomes with him and everything is becoming too much between the physical and the mental and his presence alone is enough to dizzy her. But it's his abdomen pressing up against her clit on the upstroke that sends her over that edge entirely.

Y/N clings to him through the initial brunt of that sweeping force that hits her harder than she ever expected it would and he helps her ride it out, his thrusts more sloppy at her contracting around him with her orgasm. It's a blinding, white-hot wave after wave of ecstasy and she goes slack in his arms. It's not until she's nearly through it that he finds his end, the last few thrusts of his hips up against her's erratic and mere knee-jerk reactions to the climax that barrels through him. The sound of his moan when he comes, his mouth open and panting into her neck, makes her whimper; at both the sensitivity she feels and the delightful noise that makes her want to kiss him until he can't breathe.

The moments following are quiet.

All that can be heard are the sounds of their heavy, heavy breaths and wind rustling the trees outside of his window.

She's still straddling his lap, him beginning to soften inside of her, when he withdraws from her, the both of them missing the feeling when they've separated. But they stay close, her legs still on either side of his hips, nose to nose as they come down from it all together.

Between all of the turbulent emotions they've worked through tonight and the hormones surging through them, they're both in search of the calming sweet sort of affection that makes her run her hand along his shoulder in comfort and her own urging need to feel his skin beneath her palms so she knows that this is really happening. That this isn't a figment of her imagination, a dream that she'll find herself waking up from in a cold sweat back home in Pennsylvania. Or that she hasn't been killed by it and this isn't a form of heaven she's found on the other side.

He seems to see this in the way she's looking at him, her other hand cupping his cheek, and he leans forward to kiss her. It's loving and yielding, warm and gentle, and it makes her eyes well up with tears at the emotion it evokes. His hand laced into her's and squeezes, as if to say I'm right here, and she can taste her tears on his lips just before they pull away.

"No matter what h-h-ha-happens with It," Bill murmurs, "I'm yours," and they both can recall a time when he'd once promised her that, had promised her that that would be the case forever.

It wasn't something that needed to be said, they both knew, but he wanted to say it aloud just in case. Of all of his lovers, she's the only one he's opened up to this deeply. Something about their connection, the connection he has to the Losers...it makes hiding any piece of himself impossible. Their love is too strong for that sort of avoidance.

Her gaze lands upon him and it's so loving it makes the arm around her waist pull tighter. But she nods, letting her forehead fall against his, and says softly, "I know, Bill...I know."

He sets her down on the mattress carefully and in the time he's gone to get her a towel, she rolls over onto her stomach to look over at the bedside table, trying not to cringe at the slick stickiness of his release on her inner thighs.

There's a mess of things she can easily identify as being purely Bill. The notebook he keeps with him everywhere he goes to write down ideas or lines for his writing, his laptop, chapstick, and a crumpled up receipt on the other edge of the tabletop opposite to the side closest to her that she recalls him shoving into his pocket at the diner.

That had made her jealous. When the waitress handed him that, the writing on the end of it something neither of them made out was what she assumed was her name and number and, though she didn't let herself even think it, the feeling that sank like a stone deep in her gut was the bitter bite of jealousy. Their morning at the diner might as well have been an eternity ago, because it sure as hell feels like it in light of all they've gone through since it. Her cheek rests on where she crosses her arms on the pillow in front of her as she thinks over everything they've endured.

Bill walks back from the bathroom, the damp towel warm in his hands, and she only notices him when he settles back onto the bed to give it to her.

"Thanks," She offers and wipes the come from her legs and he gives her privacy, turning his head to look over at the pile of clothes they made on the carpet on the other side of the bed. His skin is still flushed along his chest and face, tinged pink due to the heat and what they just did.

The towel is folded up and placed at the corner of the bed when she crawls across to his side of the bed and comes up behind him to wrap her arms around his shoulders. He leans into her touch, sighing contentedly, and doesn't shy away when she presses a kiss to the edge of his shoulder. In fact, the world feels a little safer at the feeling of her lips caressing the skin there without the hesitation or doubt they had previously held in regards to one another. Her chin rests on his shoulder for a moment, but then he feels her chest moving against his back and he turns to see what's wrong, thinking she's crying.

She isn't.

It's a sweet, giggling laughter to he hears escape her when he shifts and finds her leaning back against the headboard.

"W-What?" He asks, brows furrowing.

There isn't much he can imagine there is to laugh about, but she had been going through the events of the past two weeks when she remembered the day she went to the book signing in Princeton.

What he hadn't been expecting to hear is, "I stole one of your books."

This time, his " _What_?" is much less confused and is more incredulous and amused instead. Now he's laughing too.

Her hand is still gripping his wrist as she shakes her head through the dying laughter and confesses.

"When Mike called me, I wanted to tell you we had to come back here in person and I tried to find you to see if you were anywhere close to where I live," Y/N says, "So when I saw that you were in Princeton doing a book signing, that wasn't far from me and I went," His face softens at that reminder of how close they'd always been to each other and it almost makes his heart ache, "But when I got there and saw you sitting there, I couldn't do it. I ran out of there and called Mike to tell him I wanted him to be the one to tell you, but I didn't realize I hadn't put your book back when I left. I was so distracted that I didn't notice and when I left for Derry the next morning I left it on the kitchen counter."

The silence that falls is tense and he knows what's coming next. Her eyes are tired when she looks up at him.

"That's how Warner figured out who you were. He told me he found the piece of paper I wrote your number down on when Mike gave it to me on the inside cover and pieced it together. It wasn't hard for him to figure out you grew up in Derry like I did and that we were the same age and I had mentioned you once before so he told me with all of that in consideration, especially your last name, he came here to find you," Her exhale is shaking, "I had told him I was coming here for a friend's funeral, I never told him about It because we swore we wouldn't, but he knew I was here and assumed you would be too. It's just that when he got here, he wasn't ready for what he'd find."

It.

Always watching and waiting for the children in this town to lower their guard and once it realized he was their child...he's lucky he has his parents' fighting spirit because without it he would be dead. It couldn't walk away from him, it had to hunt him down, yearned for the taste of his fear so desperately it became reckless and angry in the pursuit to get it. The last five days of his recovery, It hasn't shown its face or snatched up another child. Not one. It had tried to get him, posed as a nurse in the dead of night at the hospital where he was being treated, but restless, grieving Bill showed up and camped outside of his room before it could strike. And that's when It knew, if it wanted to get Bill, it would have to get Warner first. After all this time of his infuriating courage and strength in the face of horrors that would have made most children his age tremble, it has found his enemy's vulnerability.

Bill swallows the lump in his throat and asks, "Why d-d-didn't you ever try to find me?"

Her answer is honest, frank.

"Because I was too afraid to."

Afraid of the possibility of losing him again if she ever did find him and somehow explain all of this to a man who thought her a stranger. It felt safer to hide away, to lock herself in than try to venture out to look for him. Plus, by the time she even considered looking into his new life and what it would take to see him again, their son had already grown to be six years old without him in his life and it was easier to not complicate it further. Or, at least, it seemed easier at the time. Now, nothing is easy. Every decision they make feels like life or death and every moment they spend in this cursed town feels like impending doom, especially knowing that It came so close to killing their child.

The fear that had closed in on him when he saw Warner for the first time, covered in blood and guts, running for his life towards the safety of his mother's arms, was insurmountable. For the first time, It had something it could take from him. For the first time, though he didn't know until his son was running to safety, It had him by the balls. If It had asked him to do  _anything_  in exchange for Warner's life, he'd have done it without blinking. He knew when those memories came slamming back into him that he would die for him without hesitation. Memories of everything surrounding that child came back and he didn't know what to do with how much he loved him. He had watched him take his first breath, loved him with his whole heart up until the day he forgot of his existence.

That had been the gaping void he felt all those years. His boy, ripped from his mind by the same creature that had been actively trying to kill him all week.

Y/N asks, looking at him as if she might begin to cry for the third time tonight, "Are you mad at me? For Em, for leaving, not trying to find you?"

The way she said that makes his heart break in half, the crack in her voice and the guilt there.

"No," He whispers, pulling her in close, "Never. N-N-N-None of that's your fault, you were grieving, y-you were in pain..." His thumb wipes away the tear that began to fall down her cheek, "I don't blame you, I p-p-puh-promise."

And she pulls him into a bone-crushing embrace at that, her relief beyond words. Bill hugs her back with just as much strength and buries his face in her neck, on the verge of crying himself.

How could he blame her when he's lucky to have her back in the first place? Regardless of the fact that she isn't at fault for what happened to them, even if she were he knows that he would have forgiven her the second she walked into this room with him. They had experienced a loss so great, many people never come back from it and, in a way, they never will, but this isn't time he will take for granted. The time he gets with her is time he'll savor, regardless of heartache and grief and everything that haunts them. So long as he has her and Warner, he can survive.

When they later fall asleep, wrapped up in each others' arms fighting it to talk sleepily until they're about to pass out from exhaustion, he rests deeply through the night, without nightmares or interruptions for the first time in years.

But peace can only last so long.

-

It's dark out by the time his phone rings.

The remainder of the night after his Mom and Bill left was fun, but uneventful. He and Beverly played board games together while they waited for Mike to get home from work and he began to grow quite fond of his parents' friend. She's funny and she doesn't look at him differently because of his birthmark; it made him feel normal for once. Then, Mike came home and they all watched TV and talked before he decided to go upstairs to bed. They were having a good time, but there was only one thing on his mind the entire afternoon.

Rowan.

Much like the Losers, she doesn't interrupt him when he stutters nor does she stare at him weirdly for his face, she's kind and sweet. Yet at the same time, there's this ferocity to her that inspires him. When nobody else was paying attention, she was studying the murders and hunting down the Shifter fearlessly. Everything about her had infuriated him at first, but now it's changed. Their encounter with It had flipped that on its head and now he can't stop thinking about his...friend?

Is that what she is? There are a few people back home who could be considered his friends, but it doesn't match up to them.

Rowan, to him, is smart and compelling. Even when he didn't like her, if she was talking he was listening. Then there's their connection. The link between their minds that they had been able to  _talk_ to each other with. If he hadn't experienced it himself, he wouldn't believe it, but it's the truth. There's this energy between them that he can't quite place and, partly, he thinks that's why he couldn't stand her before. Well, that and...

He likes to believe that he's great at hiding his feelings, but that's not the case when it comes to her. The way they talked and simply the feeling he gets when they're together is different from what he feels when he's with their other friend. Alexis makes him laugh and smile and, in the small time they've known each other, he's warmed up to her easily. But there's something about Rowan.

Y/N told him she tried to visit him when he was at the hospital and it only made it worse. The fact that he couldn't see her was killing him and so when his phone rang with her name lighting up the screen, he picked it up on the first ring.

"Meet me at the corner of Neibolt street," She said, "I need to talk to you."

That's how he snuck out the back door and ended up here, walking down Route 2 with only his phone and Bill's flashlight he found earlier in the week in either hand.

It struck him as odd; the place she chose to meet up. But he isn't supposed to be out of the house right now anyway and if there's a chance he's able to see her again, he's going to take it regardless of the inconvenience. Plus, talking to her would give him the chance to voice what he's been working through for the days he's spent lying idle in bed, bored, for hours on end.

Streetlights illuminate his path for him, though he sticks to the shadows of the street for the sake of not being caught or seen by anyone who might report him for being out after curfew. Beverly had been the only one left awake, besides him, in the house when he left. She was out on the front porch, probably smoking a cigarette, when he slipped soundlessly out the back and over the fence into the neighbor's yard without raising her suspicion. A jagged wire on the fence had ripped open one of his healing cuts, but it only stung a little bit. It wasn't bad enough for him to consider stopping to check it out.

No, all he can focus on was getting there.

It's eerily quiet as he nears the intersection of Route 2 and Neibolt street, where only days ago he had met his father for the first time he can remember. There's only the howl of the wind that's far too chilled for the season they're in that's accompanied by storm clouds converging steadily overhead as he gets to thinking about that morning, letting his surroundings slip away from him.

Bill isn't the horrible person he had pictured him to be his entire life.

He isn't that at all.

Watching him talk to his mom from the kitchen was strange, as well as it was strange when he spied on him having breakfast and going about whatever it is that seemed fit to do before they left later in the afternoon. The man was...nice, normal even, and he's not sure how to internalize that. His imagination made him out to be this cold-blooded asshole and that's not the case here. Though changed with time and life experience, it felt like he was watching the boy he read about in the journals who had, with the help of his friends, been able to triumph over the impossible. The person who loved his mother fiercely, not the uncaring jerk who he thought his absent father would be. And that realization terrifies him. It makes him want to flee and hide, but there's a voice in the back of his head saying otherwise. Saying that maybe...just maybe...

Before he can get through the next thought, he's stood at the end of Neibolt street.

The road before him is deserted.

As per usual, the only other building in sight is the Church at the very corner of the street he's stood on and there's no one else but him. It makes his heart clench with a sharp sense of worry. Did something happen to Rowan? She isn't the type who isn't on time or doesn't follow through on their word. She's more the reliable, studious type that he always envied for being so put together and seemingly perfect at all times. Not the person who ditches her friend when he risked so much in coming out here to talk to her.

Warner turns in his spot, aiming his flashlight down in the direction of the Creep House. Completely desolate.

"Rowan?"

His voices echoes out through the black, darkness of night, the clouds above winking out the light from the moon and stars that would have been a generous help had the storm not begun to close in on Derry days ago. It doesn't make any sense to him, the absence of his friend, the place of their meet-up spot, none of it, and there's something deep inside urging him to turn back to go home. But, against his better judgment, he turns the other way and flashes the light in the direction of where he came from to see if she's coming down the street he took here.

The wish to see her and his thoughts of Bill took over his good senses. He should have been smarter, should have kept his wits about him and have been more cautious in leaving the safety of Mike's house.

Leaving was his first mistake, for It had been camped outside the household waiting for the smallest of openings to strike for the duration of his recovery. Because it had come to this conclusion; If I don't get rid of him and every one of them in that group trying to destroy me, I will never be able to hunt in peace. To do what it's only purpose is to do; kill. It's thirst for blood drove it straight into the unstoppable force that is Warner Denbrough and it isn't about to be sent away by another child for the second time.

His only warning is the sound of a few thudding, wet footsteps before gloved hands seize him by either shoulder. The scream he lets loose is bloodcurdling, but they're too far from the nearest person for his desperate cry for help to work.

"Get the fuck off!" He bellows.

Perhaps it's the smell, or maybe the energy that surrounds the strange creature that has come face to face with him far too many times for his liking, that makes him begin to sob out of sheer terror. No, he decides, it's the voice, so cheerful yet bone-chilling, that speaks right into his ear.

"Rowan can't save you this time, Warner."

It happens so swiftly, he doesn't even feel pain when his head is smashed down into the concrete.

-

It's the warmth on the side of the bed that had always felt cold and empty for the last decade that woke her from her peaceful sleep. At first, she had jolted. There was someone in her room and she wasn't-until she paused and looked and it all hit her. The night before, all they'd done and discussed.

Her eyes trace over his every feature.

It's wild to her how calm he seems in sleep. His face is relaxed and his eyes are fluttered shut, hair disheveled from how it had dried with her hands running through it and when he had turned over in his sleep. It makes her mind flash briefly with about a million other times she had seen him in that very position; turned over on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, red hair sticking out in different directions, and an arm stretched across her waist. It's funny how fast time passes. One day they had been the parents of a newborn boy, so happy they didn't know what to do with themselves, and now...

Though punctuated by every other turbulent emotion that swirls through her; she's strangely happy, far too happy it's nearly overwhelming.

This had been what she woke up to every morning, how had she ever taken that for granted?

"Y-You're staring."

His voice makes her almost jump again, but she smiles at him instead, shutting her eyes in appreciation of how his hand runs up and down the bare skin along her side. She woke him up when she jumped up from the depths of her sleep, moving from where she'd been tightly tucked against his side.

Bill wipes the sleep from his eyes and squints against the harsh sunlight fading into his room through the gaps in the blinds. But once his eyes adjust, his face shifts with that feeling that takes hold of his heart upon looking at her from where she's laying her head on the pillow beside him. Her cheek is resting on the back of her hand and he wants to reach out to run his thumb along the soft skin along her face.

"Can you blame me?" She says, "I've been missing that face for eleven years, you'll put up with a little light staring."

He rolls his eyes playfully and scoots the last bit of distance between them, letting out a soft chuckle into her chest as he wraps both arms around her. Her skin is hot against his face.

"And I-I've missed you bossing me around, you're so c-c-c-cute when you're bossy."

When they first became friends when they were twelve, he always made fun of her for it, but, looking back on it, he guesses that was probably because he thought she was so cute and underneath it all, he cared about her in a way that confused him. He'd had a crush before, in the fourth grade, but this felt different and he hadn't known how to handle it. After all, falling in love isn't something the average twelve-year-old boy experiences. It wasn't the way he loved his friends or his family, it was of its own category and it wasn't until later, until they progressed through the horrors of the following summer, that he knew what it was.

And that feeling still lingers, that rush that he felt at the beginning. He fell in love all over again and this time he doesn't intend on letting her slip away ever again.

Y/N hums contentedly, a kiss pressing to the top of his head.

"I'm bossy and you're fussy, what a match."

"Damn straight," He yawns into her chest, "Warner's gonna h-h-h-have to get used to my fussing, I was pacing at the hospital f-for an hour."

That makes them both freeze. They hadn't talked about that before they fell asleep; Warner.

Before they got  _distracted_ , they had talked about their kids. About the one who hadn't made it and the one that had, but not about the future he'll have with him. They had talked through every piece of their past, yet what's to come...that's the new mystery.

Neither of them know what to say, but he pulls back from where he'd pressed his face into her and meets those nervous eyes. His arms are still pulled tight around her and their bodies press together beneath the blankets with each breath. Her fingertip trails along the edge of his cheekbone. It's hard to hold that gaze when he's looking at her like this, wide-eyed and transparent. Unlike the previous week they spent hiding and dodging, now there's no stone they've left unturned but this and they aren't sure they want to sort out what's to come yet. At least not until they've either killed It or, god forbid, It kills them. And in that case, the future won't matter.

So, taking the possibility of not being here when tomorrow comes into consideration, his voice is soft when he asks, leaning into her touch, "What's he like, Y/N?"

She lets out a heavy exhale, almost chuckling at the prospect of having to pin down the chaotic essence of that boy with mere words. He's something she can't wrap her head around. The fact that they made him, that he's their's, feels all too strange because he's always felt like something of his own. Different from either of them in a way she could never place.

The pillow is soft on her cheek when she nuzzles her face further into it and her nose brushes his with the movement. It still makes her blush when he fixes his attention solely on her, though she's sure she should be used to it by now no matter the time they spent apart.

"He's...he's  _everything_ ," She whispers, as if awed by the thought of their son alone, "He's smart and intuitive, has this crazy imagination too but he doesn't like art or anything. He likes space a lot, science and math is more his thing," a smile that is so infectious it makes his lips curl up at the sight of it, "But he's not just that, he's a sweetheart too. He's a bit afraid of letting new people in because other keep kids are mean to him and that just-that's just how he's built, but if he cares about you, he always will."

The slightly calloused palms of his hands run up and down the length of her back and his skin is warm where his chest, a steady firm wall in front of her, presses up against her's. It's intoxicating, their closeness. It's jarring for the both of them to be so near considering their situation.

His eyes follow every movement she makes, from her eyes lighting up, to her lips moving with every syllable.

She grabs one of his hands in its soft, sweeping descent along the slope of her waist and brings it to her mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before interlacing her fingers with his.

"I know you're worried about him and if he'll want you in his life, but you shouldn't worry too much. He seemed like he was warming up to you already yesterday and," She lets out a nervous huff of laughter, "you're his dad...he never got to meet you and his curiosity will drive him to you at one point or another."

Bill nods, not convinced at all, and averts his eyes, murmuring, "I know."

But before he can turn, she holds him by the chin and makes him look at her.

There's a pause, a slight silence throughout the entire room, and then her hand moves up cup his cheek, the look in her eyes growing soft with admiration.

"I know him and I know you and that's enough for me to be absolutely sure that he'll love you, Bill, more than you'll ever know," Y/N says, "He knows that it wasn't your fault that you weren't there...do you? You don't blame yourself, right?"

He stays quiet for a brief second, then-

"I  _forgot_  you. I forgot him. I k-k-know It made us all lose our memories, but how do you forget your own kid? I-It wasn't anything either of us could've stopped it, but I still can't help feeling guilty. For G-George, for Warner, all of it."

She sits up more, propped onto her elbow with her other hand braces on the plane of his chest to keep herself steady.

It makes sense, why he would think everything's his fault and why even things that were out of his hands seem to weigh down on his shoulders. His parents made him think it was his fault, they blamed him and ever since he hasn't been able to outrun the ripple effects the guilt they forced on him and the neglect that ruined his teen years had created. They made him feel like he ruins everything he touches. They made him feel unloveable and that wasn't right.

"It wasn't your fault. I mean it, you don't have to blame yourself. It was It's fault. Like you said last night, nobody's to blame for this."

Bill nods solemnly into the hand holding his cheek.

That would have to be something to work through then; his issues. The way he's always jumping at the chance to put all fault on himself, the guilt he carries around with him everywhere he goes for that death twenty-seven years ago. It took him years to actually stop and wonder for the first time if what his parents made him feel had been correct. If he were deserving of the blame.

After all, if hadn't been sick, if he hadn't _made him the boat_...

"I r-remember the first two years of his life in pieces," He confesses, "Warner was an early walker, at eight months he was b-b-bracing his hands on the edge of the coffee table trying to get a few s-steps in and he wouldn't quit. Then, when we were sitting with him out in the backyard he just stood up and walked three steps from you to me...I think that's one of the last m-muh-memories I have of him until this week. All of it's h-happy up until..."

They both go still.

Until her.

Everything had been on an upward track. Warner had only turned two years old the month prior, when she was eight months pregnant with their second, and they were all so...alive. It felt like nothing could touch them, as if the rotten past they shared had finally fallen and gave way to the goodness of the world. At first, he had been apprehensive of such happiness. He had braced himself for the next horrible thing that would happen, since, as the record had shown for his life so far, something surely was going to take that away from them.

But, then, nothing did. And it was the best year of his life, that brief stretch of time when he had everything. His friends, his wife, his son. And once they found out there was another kid on the way, he let his guard down. He let himself, for once, against all reason, hope for good against evil and he was wrong. Their fall from grace was an eruption of darkness that had never once given way to light until yesterday.

"I thought it would've been easier to never have seen her, you know?" Y/N whispers, voice trembling against her will in a way that immediately makes him reach for her, "They offered, but I couldn't. I didn't wanna acknowledge that she existed and that killed you. It was easier to run and hide for me, I wouldn't even say her name, I didn't look at her and that broke your heart."

His hand runs up her neck and to where her hair hangs in her face, brushing that piece behind her ear with care. There are tears in his eyes.

He had looked.

Bill embraces her so tightly, fearful of what might happen if he lets go, and says softly, "S-She was beautiful."

And that makes her cry harder. Her chest is shuddering against his with each sob and they hold each other through the worst of it.

It had been a loss. A horrific, unimaginable kind of loss and grief that struck them so long ago, but it doesn't have to be anymore. For the first time since they lost her, it doesn't feel like the end. Even if the night they finally rid the earth of the festering evil that is It ends up being their last; this isn't the ending. Their story was always meant to be continued. And, despite it all, somewhere deep down, there was a tiny part of them that hadn't given up on each other.

So, he leans up and presses a kiss to her lips, the salty taste of their tears lingering where their mouths meet, with nothing but hope for what comes next. As long as they had each other, as long as they had Warner, nothing else would matter. His safety, his happiness-Bill would devote everything to it. That feeling of overwhelming love and protectiveness over him that he had felt as soon as he laid eyes on the screaming little baby boy that was laid on her chest had snapped back into place as quickly as it had the first time.

"I love you," She mutters into where they've parted and the words make that darkness recoil, if only for the next few moments.

It's been a while since he's smiled like this before.

"I love you too."

It's a long, long while before either of them pull away from the returning kiss.

Their morning together is only interrupted by one thing and perhaps it was God, the Turtle, or whatever Other higher being rearing the harsh head of reality at them, but the shrill rings of their phones on the bedside table rips through that happiness and seemingly unbreakable hope in a matter of seconds until it's reduced to a dim ember.

Life has a way of doing that when it comes to them.

-

Shrouded in darkness, he found upon waking that he doesn't care for the tunnels beneath Derry.

His eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness yet and he stills in his spot on the cold, wet cistern floor as he realizes his pounding headache. There's a drop of blood descending from the top of his forehead along the curve of his nose bridge and he wipes it from the corner of his eye before it can blur his already unreliable sight. Pitch black surrounds him.

It had been stupid of him to leave the house, but, strangely, that's not what he focuses on.

Instead, he's wondering who the person across the room is.

A figure, a wisp of a shadow, that lingers along the edge of the wall opposite to where he's fixed, hands bound in some strange rope above his head, in the darkest side of the wide open space. It's hard to make out from the distance between them, but the barely-there stream of light coming in from high, high above illuminated through the darkness enough for him to see it's a human. Or, at least, It in human form.

The person stands up and Warner stills in his place.

They're crouching, avoiding the puddles in their way that would create any possible sound to give away their movement, as they start to go to him. If he weren't already shaking from the grime and sewer water soaking through his pant legs and clothing, chilling him amid the beginning of the strange summer storm to the bone, he would have begun trembling now. The floor is slippery as he tries to get his bearings, bare feet scraping against the heavily blood-stained concrete hopelessly. His hands are bound to something, God knows what considering he's only been awake for a few seconds and already something is preparing to pounce, so he can't even ready himself to fight. He's trapped prey.

The person is light on their feet and careful, but missteps and splashed in a puddle here or there, visibly recoiling when the noise echoes of the walls.

He gets to his feet, attempting to stand and almost slipping and falling back onto his ass, as the figure nears.

"Get a-away from me," Warner says, "G-G-Get the fuck away!"

He still has inbound feet and if kicking It in the face buys him time, if only seconds, he won't hesitate.

The harsh bite in his voice was something she hadn't expected and Rowan whispers, "Don't be so loud, it's me," and crouches down in front of him.

His body sags heavily against the confines of the rope and he jerks forward at her against it, slipping off his feet and slamming his knees onto the concrete hard enough to make him wince through his teeth trying to stay quiet.

She came to save him. She cares...why is she putting herself at risk for him? What did he do to deserve that loyalty? All they did for most of the time they knew each other up until that morning they fought It was bump heads at every turn. It had felt like she was the last one he'd imagine come to his rescue here and yet...

"Rowan!" He whisper-shouts, then upon seeing her face at his volume he talks so softly it's nearly inaudible, "You're here."

"Of course I'm here, It got me too. I just wasn't tied to the web, It just made sure my hands couldn't get free and left, I think it was in a rush. This shit is so strong that my wrists almost started bleeding when I tried to yank my hands free."

Web?

He furrows his brows at the word and tries to twist to get a look at what exactly he's been tied up to.

It hurts to twist his body so much for even longer than a few moments, but he does it anyway. Getting a grasp on his surroundings is too important to ignore. The rope, though smooth and soft, is so tightly wrapped around his wrists that it aches to move them to see. But he manages and what awaits is far beyond what he expected.

A spider's web, extending into the dark farther than his human eyes can see, littered with a few corpses and lifeless victims here or there. He's tied to the bottom edge of it, his body sagging down on the floor with his arms extending straight up above him.

The first form of the Shifter he saw had been a spider...

He pales, "W-W-We're going to die, aren't we?"

If the dark stain of blood just beneath him were to suggest anything, he would assume it would be that. Rarely does anything, especially a child, escape It's grasp. She doesn't bother lying.

"Maybe. There's a good chance, But at the noise that escapes his throat at that, she amends, "But there's also a good chance we could get out. We got away from it once, covered in blood and guts, but we still escaped," Then her voice goes low and she leans in close to the point where her nose brushes his cheek as she whispers into his ear, "Plus, we know the Ritual and your parents and the Losers will notice you aren't there as soon as they wake up. If It doesn't expect all of us, we'd have a chance at maybe even killing it."

The room is so cold and it makes him violently uncomfortable considering the time of year. She noticed it gets warmer the closer she approached to the web, though.

He turns to look her in the eye, having adjusted enough to the dark to be able to see her faintly through it all, and has to pull back slightly from the lack of distance that's between them.

"Why aren't you afraid? It literally has us tuh-trapped in its web and you're acting like it's fine. I don't want to die, Rowan, we're gonna d-d-d-die-"

"Someone has to be strong, so why not me? If we're going to die, I'm not going to waste the time I have left freaking out, I'm gonna fight as hard as I can," She says, but he does hear the tremble in her voice.

He, forgetting his position here, tries to move his hands forward to put a hand on her shoulder, but just jerks against the confines of the spider silk instead.

Always moving too quickly, never allowing herself room to breathe, he sees right through her. This whole time she's been distracting herself from the horror of losing Patrick and no matter what he, Jack, or Alexis would do she wouldn't open up or even say a word on it.

He frowns.

"You d-don't have to pretend to not be afraid, I'm not Jack, I'm not Alexis, I'm nuh-not your parents, you don't h-h-have to hide..." Warner trails off, then adds, "I like to pretend I'm brave sometimes, but, really, I'm usually two s-s-s-suh-seconds away from pissing my pants whenever I even think of the S-Shifter. I lie to my mom about making progress on how I feel about my stutter and the birthmark. I never tell anyone that, but you're Rowan and...I just-I'm going to fight till the end too b-b-but-but it's okay to talk about things, I know you don't like t-to, but if you want to...I can listen."

The silence is tense and for a moment, he senses her recoil at the words. It had once been him avoiding talking about things, out of fear, because he was afraid that Bill wasn't the monster he made him out to be in his mind and he was afraid of liking him, of letting himself think about the possibility of a life with him. And she had been on his end that time. Up in her room when they were going through his journals and pictures, she had kept prodding and trying to get him to open up, yet he couldn't. Like he does when his mom wants to talk about his birthmark or his stutter and how he feels about it, he simply froze up.

He and Rowan are quite different in a few ways, but deep down they have the same heart. Deep down, there's no difference, or moment where the room felt too small for the both of them and they would bump heads, that would stop him from caring about her.

He doesn't know why he does, it's inexplicable. They met last week under the worst possible circumstances, they didn't get along, challenges him and rises to every single obstacle they've faced together. She's sweet, she's strong, she doesn't put up with bullshit and she's smarter than he is and he loves it. He shouldn't care this much about her, about Alexis or Jack, because they might as well be strangers, but they're not.

Rowan chews on the inside of her cheek nervously, her eyes heavy with an emotion he can't read, and she lets her bound hands fall into her lap.

"I'm terrified," She whispers, "Of death, of It, just everything. Sometimes I feel like if I pretend to be strong, then maybe it'll be easier, but it gets worse...I miss Patrick. He always listened when I needed to talk."

The room feels warmer when that sad smile crosses her face at him, his stomach flipping inside of him.

"I do that too," He says, "I g-get it. It's easier, but I know it also m-m-makes it hurt more. When you have no one to talk to about it and it stays trapped in you."

She murmurs, "Then why don't you be honest about how you feel with your mother?"

There's a pause he takes to think, then-

"The birthmark is easier to talk about to her, even though it's w-w-w-worse for me to deal with since it's easier to not s-speak to hide my s-stutter and hiding your face is harder. But I guess I was just always afraid of where the stutter comes from. I a-a-always wondered and Bill was never around so I guess I didn't w-w-want to talk about anything that might lead to him," His eyes fall to the floor, "She always got weird whenever I asked about who he was. I never got answers, so I stopped t-trying to."

It's hard for him to not be angry at her and a part of him is. Not as much as he is with Bill, even though he  _knows_  it wasn't his fault, though he  _knows_  it was all the evil, horrid creature that tied him up in this web there's still so much to unravel there. But his anger towards his mom, his anger in general, has been fluctuating lately. It's about finding the balance between being rational and expressing valid emotion. He knows he's angrier at the situation itself more than he is with either of them, because they were just as much victims to it as he was, but it'll take time. To process it all and accept it. Already, he's doing better than he ever expected to with dealing with it all

Finding out who Bill was was a turning point, a chapter heading. There was life before him and this wretched town and now he's stuck in the after. The thing is, he isn't sure that the after is as bad as it seems and that terrifies him more than the Shifter does. He doesn't want it to be good. He wants him to be the monster he thought him to be before, that would be easier.

She gives him a look, one that he knows immediately and almost chuckles at because it's so her he can't even express it. She's prodding, challenging.

"I don't because it's easier not to," He says, "You and I both have been put through hell, we b-b-b-both know it's easier to give into denial and f-fear. It's harder to beat the mental monsters. I mean, that's what the R-R-Ritual Of Chüd is all about, isn't it? Overcoming your fears."

She nods, "A battle of the mind."

A battle the Losers won and yet it didn't kill it in the end. A part of him wonders if it can truly even die or if it'll simply hide and he'll have to come back to send it away again just like his parents have. It would take everything, he's realizing, it would take all they have to destroy such a source of evil. The thing might be the goddamn  _Devil_ and he's trapped in its lair...How has his life come to this?

Two weeks ago it had been the last week of school and his worst problem was the assholes there that tease and mess with him. Now his problem is killing an interdimensional shapeshifter that eats children and has him the third-highest on its kill list. (He knows who's above him and it's not any better). These things only happen in movies and tv, it's almost like the horror book Bill wrote. He read it, getting over his vendetta against English and literature as a whole for the sake of this, on the bus ride up. The thing was about as thick as his arm and it made his skin crawl, little did he know the horror game from the depths of his subconscious where real, petrifying memories lie. It was hard to read at times, partly because it was Bill's book and partly because the main character reminded him painfully of his mother.

Warner shifts, the inch-deep water pooled beneath him splashing with the movement, and looks up at where his hands are knotted tightly into the web. His hair, wet with the sewer water and blood from where It had bashed his face into the ground, faces into his face when he looks back down to meet her gaze.

"Do you happen to know what can break s-s-spider silk?"

-

The storm converging on Derry looks, from down below, like it's going to be bad.

But neither of Bill or Y/N care, all they can think about is one thing; Warner. He's all that matters now.

Mike's front door is left open for them as they ascend the stairs to the porch and rush as swiftly as they can, a pace they've kept since they were caught up to speed on all they missed, into the house.

She's angry with herself for ever leaving him alone on the property. Well, he was never  _alone_ , but she can't stand the fact that the one time she wasn't there was the time It succeeded in getting their son. While he'd been dragged away by that evil bastard she and Bill had been sleeping. It makes her skin crawl and a part of her wants to regret everything, the confessions, the sex-all of it. Because it's only Bill who could have lowered her defenses and it must have known when to pounce. It must have been waiting for her to slip up and a part of her wants to scold herself for letting this happen, for letting everything she swore she wouldn't do or say on the drive up happen.

Doesn't that make it her fault? Never mind that he was with family, that he was safe as ever so long as he was in Mike's house, if she had been there, it-it-

Y/N lets out a deep, deep breath when they cross into the living room.

It doesn't matter...not anymore anyway. Whether or not it was because she stayed the night at his room rather than at Mike's house, because she can't change that. Her heart races, though her breathing does not falter. It's difficult to remember that it isn't either of their faults. It's hard for the both of them to not plunge into every what-if and wonder where it all went wrong with them and their child, especially Bill.

His fingers close tightly around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. Knuckles gone white, ink smudged from when he'd spilled water on it early in the first week and still hadn't thrown the stupid slip of paper away...the receipt.

Her voice is sharp and commanding when they enter the room, not giving the rest of them room to start before she asks, "Where is he?"

"Y/N, I swear I was keeping an eye on him-"

Beverly. There's a flash of red hair much like his own and guilty green eyes, but his love doesn't pay them mind.

"I don't care, does  _anyone_  know where he is?"

It's hard to think straight and he doesn't blame her. After all, if he were the one doing the talking his word choice wouldn't be far off by any means. His blood is boiling within him.

The phone call they'd gotten was brief and all they heard was that Warner wasn't in his room when Mike realized Y/N wasn't home and went to check up on him. But it was still enough information for her to know what happened, or at least to guess, and even now she doesn't want to believe it. Where is he, she asks, knowing full well that the tunnels beneath the city are a labyrinth she will have to brave once again to find him trapped below.

Where else would he be if not It's lair?

Then, as he was pulling the nearest pair of jeans up his legs something caught his eye on the bedside table. All week it had been hidden from view, until last night when she knocked into the table while getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Before, the writing had been unimportant and uninteresting, until, now that he knows of the past he'd lost, the name printed on the bottom edge of the receipt caught his eye instantly.

His hands smoothed out the crumpled up receipt on the surface of the bedside tabletop, his body hunched over low to see it, and, at first, he didn't want to believe it. His heart dropped into his stomach and he scanned it over again, again, and again, the shaking of his head only subtle but persistent.

"No," the word was barely a push of air.

They were about to leave, they would be out the door in the next minute and he had anticipated what was coming after that phone call, but this confirmed it. Bill slammed the note back down onto the table hard enough to make the lamp sitting atop it rattle, cursing with a sort of aggression he hasn't felt in years, "Fuck!"

He put on the nearest shirt of his he could find and as soon as she had walked out from where she'd been changing in the bathroom, he slipped the receipt into one of her hands and took the other with his own. They were in the car only a moment later when she finally unfolded it and the same shock of terror to her heart that he had upon reading it.

Now, in the still, looming quiet of Mike's house, she holds that thin paper in her closed first.

Once they read the note, they put two and two together quite fast. That waitress had been unnervingly fixated on Bill the entire time and while Y/N had felt jealousy, there was certainly no need for it. Especially not when the waitress had been It in the skin of a human being. Her handwriting is neat and if she were to uncrumple the slip it would read in carefully scrawled pen;  ** _Warner's next._**

The living room feels different than it had the day before, when her, Beverly, and Warner were talking quietly while Bill slept on the couch. Yesterday had been so different. With all they had confessed and the joy, however fleeting it may have been, of letting him back in her life again. Happiness never seemed to be a lasting thing when it comes to them.

There's always a catch.

She asks again, softly this time, "Where is he?"

It's Mike who approaches, taking her hand into his, and says, "You know where he is..."

Of course she does. They all do, someone just has to say it.

Bill doesn't know what he's feeling, considering how drastically his emotions have fluctuated in the last twenty-four hours alone. It's feeling a lot like the last time he had faced It that summer day twenty-seven years ago and he's not sure he can bear it. He's not sure he'll make it this time, but if Warner's down there...if his son needs him, he'll put his life on the line without hesitation.

He shifts in his spot, his arms crossed nervously over his chest, and tries to put his racing thoughts into words. It's hard to capture it all with most of the feelings and thoughts he has being indescribable. But he tries.

"I'm tired," Bill says, lifting his head up and meeting eyes with everyone in the room, "I'm tired of t-th-the-this, I'm tired of It, I'm just  _tired_ ," There's no white noise to fill the gaps in his words, nothing but them looking to him, hanging off his every word, "I don't ha-have any speech or anything to convince you guys to go fight that thing with me, all I have is that. I'm tired of this, I just want it all to end, and now that Warner's down there I don't think I can procras-s-stinate this any longer..."

The Losers are all run down ragged and they aren't inclined to disagree with him about wanting it done and to finally lay all this to rest. How much more can human beings take, how far can one be pushed?

He shakes his head, exasperated, "I'm killing It tonight. If I die, I die, I don't care as long as we get Warner back and I don't blame you i-i-if you don't want to come with me."

Then there's a pause.

It's the kind that they're all too familiar with. The kind that always happens right before something like this goes down. The slightest bit of hesitation before following each other into the pits of hell.

It took her a full five minutes of standing here, mind wild with the fear and adrenaline that her son going missing had prompted, to acknowledge the rest of her friends standing around the room. The way Beverly is looking at her...it breaks her heart. They were always close and she was arguably the most loyal to her of them all, excluding the one she'd married, and she can tell from the way those green eyes are shining at her that she feels guilty for what happened. Even if it wasn't her fault, even if Y/N obviously doesn't blame her, she feels awful for it. Their child went missing under her and Mike's watch.

Someone speaks, but it doesn't reach her.

Y/N frowns, her eyes lined with tears. How could she have let this happen? It's her only job, keeping him safe, keeping him from It was something they swore and she-her chest aches with a pain she can only place as heartbreak-she  _failed_  him. If she had stuck to her original plan and avoided Bill, if she hadn't gotten distracted by him-the racing thoughts come to a screeching halt at the warmth of someone's hand gently coming to rest on the small of her back.

His eyes are soft, the blue of them much more vibrant in the buttery sunlight that falls on him from the open window, and she takes a long moment to look into them. To look into his eyes, to register that warmth of his palm through her shirt, and be brought back to reality.

The words that she had missed in her lost haze of tangled thoughts had been Eddie being the first to agree to go and fight down in the sewers. The rest of them had begun to vocalize their agreement too when he realized she was tuning out, an expression on her face that he recognized somewhere deep inside of him, and moved the few steps to rid themselves of the distance.

She's still looking at him when Beverly says, "Together," and that makes her turn to face her friend. She says again, this time firmer, "Together, that's the only way we can defeat It."

That was how it started, wasn't it?

They were merely children, but together they had a power that even It could not overcome. Their love and friendship and courage was a weapon, as it will be again. Without Stan, it may not be the same, but they sure as hell can try.

"We have a score to settle for Stan," Ben explains, smiling sadly at her, "And Warner's our family now too and we can't let It take any more people we love..."

Her heart flares with a feeling a lot like awe and she feels herself coming back, back, back to the real world. And with it comes the anger and the desperation, replacing that faraway sense of dazed melancholy that had taken her over since they got in the car to come here.

It has their son and It already got Stan...there cannot be any more loss, she won't allow it.

The room is pulsing with an energy that hasn't been present in years and her eyes flicker from his to their's, her mind already having been made up as soon as the phone rang.

They all wait for her to say it.

"We end this tonight," Her chin is held higher now, "Together."

-

His eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough for him to be able to see the detail of Rowan's scrunched face as she tries to batter the seemingly unbreakable spider silk with the handle of Bill's flashlight he found in Neibolt. It was in his backpack when It had snatched him up off the side of the road and she looked there first for anything to break him free.

Her arms raise up above her head and she brings the flashlight down on the barely weakened spot in the silk with all of her strength.

Nothing seems to be looking up, at least to him, but she keeps trying anyway.

"Fuck!" She cries, her grip on the light slipping as she hits at what's binding his hands again and again, "It," Another desperate attempt, "Won't," He winces as the edge of the metal grazes his hand with the next hit, "Budge!"

It's been five minutes of relentless attempts at breaking it like this and no progress has been made. Warner slumps against the confines holding his wrists, grimacing as his body sags into a freezing puddle "water".

It's truly hopeless.

When he realized Rowan was here too, with her hands unbound and everything, there was this spark of undimming hope and joy in his heart. Looking over at her through the darkness felt being blinded by the sun while surrounded by torturous, unending night, but that doesn't matter anymore. Neither does whatever unresolved tension there is between him and Bill, none of it matters. He only wishes he could have at least talked to him before he...He frowns. They're waiting to be slaughtered, aren't they?

Somewhere deep down he perhaps thought up until the very moment It captured him that he could outrun the terror of an ancient monster. Down inside, there was this urgency and passion he had when he was hunting it down with his new acquaintances and reading those journals, unraveling the mystery of it all-it almost felt like it was fated for him to be here. That he was meant to do this...but he was wrong to think himself stronger than a creature that might as well be the devil itself. Since she can't see him, he lets his head fall and shuts his eyes with that lingering sense of defeat.

Amid the revelations about Bill and the chaos of it all, he had been quick and careless and he shouldn't have, that isn't him. The second he stepped foot in Derry, something came over him. There was this rage and blazing fire that settled over his skin until he was burning so hot there was nothing to do but go and go and go and go. Until this...until now...

"Stop, Rowan, s-s-s-s-stuh-st-" He clenches his jaw, unable to get it out, "S-Stop trying."

The sound of her breath halting and the relentless pound of the flashlight handle on his confines is all he needs to know she has. If he were to look up and squint through the darkness, he'd see her frowning at him. Sweat beads on her forehead and her arms ache worse than they did that day in Neibolt when she'd used them to break her fall when Jack literally exploded all over the living room like a living bomb. It makes her want to cringe just thinking of that, of her lost friend.

"There's no p-p-point. We're already dead."

"We aren't going to die, I thought you of all people woul-"

"It has us! Nobody c-c-cares, nobody is coming for us! Not your parents, not Alexis, not B-Bill, not even my mother! We're just kids, you really think we can kill it ourselves?" His throat is scratchy by the time he's done yelling, "You're smarter than that. I know you are, you're the smartest person I know...we're gonna die, Rowan..."

She clutches the light tightly in her hands and huffs out a heavy exhale, her thumb pushing the switch up. It flickers, barely, on his bloody face and the sight of him like this makes her let out a sound that echoes through his heart.

"Warner," She whispers, "You're hurt."

Blood is dried all down his chin up the length of his face, around his eyes and down his nose, up to where his wound is clotting along his hairline. It's horrific. It makes him look so unlike himself. It covers up his birthmark and she doesn't like it gone. Far gone is the strong, willful boy she'd met last week. In his place is a tortured person, perhaps the real him, the one he'd been too afraid to let her see, just like how she's been hiding herself this whole time too. Despite a black eye and cuts all over him, when she first saw him laying there at Alexis' house she found him quite cute. Even if he would never think of himself as anything other than ugly, even if it would take years of work on his self-confidence to think of himself that way, she still felt her heart catch every time he did so much as breathe. Now, he's shrouded in maroon hues of flaky dried blood. From the way he's sweat and cried away through the layer of it that had covered the apples of his cheeks, it looks like he'd been crying drops of blood.

He looks up from the ground, blue eyes shining in the flickering light.

The hair atop his head is crusted with it, the chestnut color of the pieces that frame his forehead now a red-black color that makes him looks so different that she doesn't know what to do with herself.

Rowan lets a tear fall and sinks to her knees to be level with him.

Neither of them have words in the midst of the eerie sounds of the cistern around them; the dripping water and splashing far off in the corridors, the rain on pavement up above that has steadily intensified the longer they've stayed trapped here all night. But what truly has him awed to silence is her. She's not hiding her emotions behind masks and plans to hunt down It. None of the smoke and mirrors, the deceptions, remain and that scares him.

The sound of the flashlight clattering on cement echoes loudly throughout the room.

Her hands come up slowly to cup his cheeks and he flinches from the touch at first, his eyebrows, caked with his own blood, furrow at her. But then his features soften and her hands are there, holding his face up in the direction of the watered down sunlight coming from far, far above them that lets her make out his features in the dark.

His breath hitches in his throat when she wipes at the blood flaked on his cheek with her thumb, then the shirt sleeve she pulled over the heel of her hand until it no longer covers his birthmark. Her thumb strokes at the mark gently, cautiously, and his exhale is so shaking she wonders if this is a line in the sand they drew that she crossed. But after a moment of waiting he doesn't retreat and, instead, he leans into the hand touching his birthmark.

He stares at her, or, at least, what he can see of her, without words.

She mutters, "You didn't look like yourself without the birthmark..."

Thank god it's so dark in here or else he'd see how badly she's blushing through the tracks of tears on her face. It's hard to remember the situation after that, but still, she feels the weight of where they are on her shoulders.

Water soaks the pant-legs of her pajamas through to her skin and it's so strangely cold, despite the fact that it's summer and this entire time he's been here it's been terribly hot to the point of discomfort.

"I know we're probably gonna die, but I don't care," She laughs bitterly, smiling through her tears, "As long as I go down trying to kill what killed all those kids, what killed your Uncle George, what tried to kill the Losers, and...Patrick. As long as I die trying to kill that stupid fucking clown, I could care less. As long as I die fighting with you at my side..."

It's another moment of stark silence save for the water rushing in a corridor outside of the room and the pounding rain, but when they meet eyes neither of them shy away from the stare.

 _It's you and me._  
  
And she nods, her smile growing wider, opting to speak out loud rather than the other way.

"We'll die together."

It's in this split-second that they allow themselves to forget everything, where they are, who they are, everything outside of this moment huddled together on the cistern floor doesn't matter. The fact that they're on death's doorstep-it doesn't matter. Instead, she lets him rest his head on her shoulder and they both cry quietly.

It's almost peaceful, the bittersweet sorrow of knowing it's your time to go.

Death, he realizes, doesn't scare him as much as it should. He should be trembling and screaming right now, yet all he does is cry into her shirt. It doesn't surprise him that nobody has noticed their absence, let alone come to rescue them. His mom he thought would notice, but Bill was never there in the first place and he never once expected to see him come through that door. False hope was never his type of thing. Getting too lost in fantasy, losing reality...it didn't work for him and in his reality, to him, it doesn't seem like Bill is coming for him.

The feeling of her shuddering with her cries makes him want to descend into full-blown sobs, but he doesn't get the chance to.

"Well, you sure were right about one thing, Warner, I  _will_ kill you."

It's voice makes his skin crawl.

Slithering up his spine, fear snakes around him and seizes his heart. That quickly, whatever it is that's going on with him and Rowan fades into a mere background noise. His chest tightens with that fear and it feels hard to breathe in the presence of it.

Up until last night, it had nearly been a week since he last had seen the monster and he barely lived that time. It had been Rowan who had saved him. The memory of that was in a loop in his head in the time he spent quarantined in his hospital room, then to his room at Mike's house.  _I've got you._  It kept going and he couldn't help it;  _I've got you, I've got you_. Their friend had been splattered on them and the living room walls, but her hands did not shake when she picked his gun up off the ground and shot right through its head. It didn't kill it, since only going through the Ritual of Chüd could truly end its reign of terror, but it slowed it enough for him to run.

That morning had been monumental. For the fact that they encountered It in such a way, yes, but mostly because of Bill...because that was the morning he met him. He knows that wasn't the first time they met, since his mom told him the truth, the entire story, while they were at the hospital, but he can't remember the first two years of his life that he did spend with the man. He didn't know what he looked like, he didn't know anything up until that moment just before he passed out when they met eyes and it felt like all of the pieces were coming together. In spite of all the issues they would have had to work through if he weren't going to die today, meeting him felt like the answer to that question he's been asking his whole life.

But that encounter he had with It last week that sent him sprinting for his life into his mother's arms hadn't been their last. Right now, he realizes, this has to be it.

He shrinks up from the floor, leaning back with his arms still bound up above his head, and recoils from the direction where it stands.

"I'd l-l-luh-like to see you try."

It smiles in a way that makes her skin crawl and Rowan steps in front of him, her arms outstretched to hold onto him by his wrists. She shakes her head at the creature, a bitter scowl crossing her face.

There's no way she'll let that happen without a fight. Even if they're both sure they can't make it themselves, she's fighting till the end.

It's crazy, she knows that well enough, they only met last week and shouldn't be this prepared to die for one another, but there's something about him. After all they've gone through in the span of the small amount of time they've spent together, she's been more confused and entranced by him than she ever had been with anyone else. He read all of the journals and listened to every word she had to say when they were learning about the Shifter, he comes across as brash, but when you get underneath of that he's so soft and kind. Most boys her age aren't anything like him and, at first, it annoyed her, how alike they were in certain aspects...yet now, as she's ready to face death with him, she understands. There's a beautiful moment of clarity that has crossed her, even now as It is staring at them with its predatory, yellow-eyes gaze, and every decision she has to make has become simple. And deep down, she feels it like a spark in the deep pits of her heart, that aching grief for Patrick and Jack transforming into something else entirely.

Her chin is held higher now, arms still stretched out in front of him, as it takes a few steps forward.

Still sporting its preferred form, it's shock of orange hair is the only thing other than its eyes that are blatantly visible through the darkness. The feeling of Warner knocking unto her as he tries to jerk his hands free of their bindings almost throws her off-balance, but she keeps her feet firm in place.

"He was screaming the whole time," It says to her with a chuckle, "I took my time with him. What was his name?"

Rowan goes still.

They've never spent so much time alone with it before. All other interactions they had were over and done within minutes, yet now they're talking. It's talking so casually about mutilating her brother as if they were talking about the weather. She knows it's only trying to throw her off her guard and get under her skin though it still hard to maintain the illusion of strength at the mentioning of him...

Behind her, there's the shuffling sound of Warner's feet gaining their footing on the concrete and he steps up as far as he's able to to stand beside her instead of behind the protection of her arms.

"M-M-M-Making her angry will only make it worse for you. You probably shouldn't u-u-underestimate her, don't forget she's the one that put a hole through your h-head," He says.

And for a moment, she's so overwhelmingly thankful he's the one by her side to do this. Despite their lack of time together, he just gets her and there's no stumbling between them now that they've swallowed their pride and gotten over their awkward crushing.

Her voice echoes in the walls of his mind,  _I think it's waiting to catch us by surprise. Don't let your guard down, not even for a second._

He doesn't risk distracting either of them by responding and instead nods, eyes glued to where It nears closer and closer to them. It's sneaky, it glides along the floor of its lair so deftly, smoothly, that it unnerves him. Though he's read over the notebook Bill filled with descriptions of everything relating to the night they ventured here, it isn't enough. It has the upper hand and it knows that.

"And what about you, Warner?" It says through a grin.

It's teeth are caked with something they can't see and are rather thankful they can't. They know it must be human remains that are plastered to its fangs. It hasn't bothered trying to appeal to them before it goes in for the kill as it would any other child. They're an exception, they're one of the pesky few that always tries to defy what it always saw as a sealed fate. The only ones like them who actually did defy it were the last children twenty-seven years ago.

His mom has been one of them, so had Bill...he's not quick enough to hide his frown at the feelings that name draws up from deep inside him.

He says it slowly, cautiously, "What about me?"

"Are you as excited as I am?" It croons, steps slowing, "That your dear parents are coming to save you? That they did exactly what I wanted them to?"

There's not enough time to process it. As everything connects in his head and he realizes everything he jeopardized in getting captured. His family, his-

"No!" Warner yells, "No, take me, don't take them! I s-s-s-swea-"

He tries to move forward, forgetting he's tied up, and loses his balance on the slick floor. The concrete on his already sore body is a harsh pain and the sound of his ankle cracking beneath the weight of his body, breaking the fall, makes Rowan gag.

But at the moment between when he slipped and when he hit the ground, it lurched forward.

If they hadn't already known it to be something of another world, a preternatural creature conceived in the pits of hell itself, the swiftness with which it crossed the room to him and threw her aside would have been proof enough. The sound of her smacking against the floor somewhere within the cistern that he can't quite discern in the midst of it all is far away when it yanks him up from the ground by his neck. It's claws punch out, puncturing his skin only enough to pull a bloodcurdling scream from him as it pulls him to be face to face.

It's breath reeks like the Neibolt house had after it had painted the walls with Jack's insides.

"They should be here soon," It breathes right into his face, a delighted smile crossing its face, "Finally," it laughs, "finally those brats that escaped and sent me away will meet their end."

Warner is trembling, barely able to move through the pain, but he still manages to sneer at it, "The o-o-only one meeting their end tonight is you."

Farther away, in the endless maze of tunnels and damp corridors of the sewers, the Losers descend into It's territory.

Y/N cringes at the diluted piss water pooling around her calves and soaking through the material of her jeans, but doesn't dare stop.

Their son is down there. Her baby is down there and It has been hellbent on killing him the entire time he's been here-she shakes her head. There's no use in letting her thoughts run wild. There's no benefit in indulging her thoughts because all it'll do is slow her down and distract her and she's on a mission.

Bill walks ahead, eyes narrowed to look through the dark even with the help of a flashlight, trudging through it all with only one thing on his mind.

For most of the time they've spent hurrying back down into their own personal version of hell, it's been quiet. The sounds of the storm above and rushing water coming in from the drains all over town is the only thing to fill the gaps in the silence. That is, until they hear a scream.

It grips Warner's injured ankle and twists, claws digging into his skin and making blood ooze out of the puncture marks onto his shoes. His scream bounces off the walls around them and up into the open air of Derry above. If it weren't storming so violently, he figures that maybe someone would hear him.

(Unbeknownst to him, people not far off from where they are  _did_  hear and they're sprinting for the source of the sound as fast as they can).

He's so dizzy, he can hardly make out the ugly face in front of him and the world feels tilted when it violently shakes him up against its web. It's gloved hands grip him firmly by the front of his shirt.

It whispers, "How long I've bided my time and waited for this day to come...once I saw that she was pregnant with you, I knew I wanted to rip you to shreds," All sounds other than its shrill voice are distant and cold, "And now that they're almost here, I can finally get a taste of your fear," a pause to look at the opening to the cistern where it hears the Losers approaching from the end of the corridor and it turns back to him excitedly, "I'm gonna make them watch."

The pain ricochets through every joint, limb, and muscle that composes him. At this point, he doesn't recognize his own cries for help and everything in him is fading.

 _Warner_.

There's someone saying his name, someone who he thinks is Rowan from where she is trying to gather the strength to get up from the floor, but he doesn't respond. It will kill him and everyone else who comes here to try to rescue him. They're both already dead, the pain is almost too great for him to fight.

 _Warner_.

His eyes are screwed shut in an attempt to make the inevitable end easier, but if he were to open them he would see It turn to look to the other side of the room.

Warner!

It's so loud it rattles his skull and he scrunches his face in anticipation of the killing blow.

It's grip on his loosens only slightly and he sags in its arms. He doesn't have it in him to talk to her now, they've already said all they wanted to before it came back and maybe if he could rally the strength to say anything, it would be to tell her to save herself.  
_  
Warner!_

The fog in his mind clears only enough for him to register the change in that voice and where it's really been coming from. He doesn't want to trust it, because what if it's only It trying to trick him into opening his eyes? Into seeing the dreadful fangs opening to rip his face off and feeling true terror.

But something inside him tells him to look, something urges him onward with a strength that feels so familiar yet foreign at the same time. Warmth and courage surges through him, wraps its arms around him and sends him strength. There's love and protection on the other side. There's sorrow, anger, and desperation. As he had when he had been running down Neibolt street to flee terror into his mother's arms and, unknowingly, straight to Bill, his mind clears and hope surges through him for reasons he can't discern. All he knows is that it's a feeling, ebbing and flowing like a living, breathing creature inside of him and it's begging him to pull himself back up. To fight.

Warner opens his eyes.

The world is flooding back in, the trance he'd been put under flaking away faster than it had fallen over him, and there's someone screaming his name. Screaming for him like they're being tortured.

Bill's voice is booming and it ignites something deep in his soul as It lets him drop to the floor at the sight of them charging into the room, "WARNER!"

He's so close to him it's almost startling. One moment he'd been fading into the other side and the next he opens his eyes to see him only feet away. It is occupied with someone else who had sprung upon its back with the ferocity only a mother protecting her child could have.

It's leaving him before he can register what he's saying and for the first time, it feels natural and right. There are tears streaming down his blood-crusted face, snot dripping down his lips. He's horrific, he's an angel of hell, but there's nothing hellish about the way he screams what comes next. In fact, it's so pleading and child-like, he doesn't know where it comes from within him.

It occurs to him that he's never said it until now.

"DAD!"

The end of the word is almost cut off at the forceful collision they make, larger arms closing in around him and pulling him into his grasp without any thought other than;  _he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's-_

He buries his face into Bill's neck, sobs coming out at full force and his entire body shuddering against his. One hand cradles his head while the other is wrapped so tightly around his frame that neither of them can breathe. If his hands weren't bound above him, he would be embracing him back just as tightly. They're both crying and it's hard to know who's tears are the ones dripping onto his t-shirt.

Bill doesn't even realize he's speaking out loud and his heart pounds through his chest so hard that Warner can feel it where they're hugging, "I h-h-h-haven't-" the crying makes his stutter intensify, "I h-haven't held you i-i-in eleven years."

This only makes them both cry harder.

Forgetting every bit of tension and turmoil between them, he adds on, his weeping voice barely a push of air, "I c-can't b-b-believe you're alive."

Time feels slower when he's in his father's arms, savoring this moment no matter how fleeting it may actually be.

It doesn't feel real for either of them, but especially Warner. They were already dead; completely doomed and yet It hadn't been bluffing about them coming to rescue him. His heart swells with love for the man that he had tried so valiantly to fight ever since he became aware of his existence. He had come to rescue him. He isn't some deadbeat asshole who never wanted anything to do with him, he loves him. Even though Y/N told him what Bill was like, even though he heard the truth, he wouldn't let himself believe it until now.

If it weren't for the sounds of struggle finally reaching him from where the Losers fend of the looming form of It, he would have let himself stay there in this embrace until the end of time, but he opens his eyes and looks up at where his wrists and tied into the web above them.

"My-My hands..." Warner stammers.

His face is wild with panic when he looks back from the web to Bill, still startled at finding a reflection of his own eyes there, in desperation.

Bill reaches for the spider silk expertly knotted around his son's wrists and scrambles to his feet. It's useless to tug on it or try to loosen its grip, as he realized when they were trying to free him earlier, but he's too stunned to put any other words together to let him know it's impossible to break.

He's considerably stronger than Rowan, considering that she's a thirteen-year-old and he's a forty-year-old man, but even that extra help can't wrench him free of the web. Pulling with all of his weight behind him, he grits his teeth and tries to somehow loosen it enough for the boy's wrists to slip out. The abrasion of the silk rubbing so closely on his skin makes him want to wince and it's so hard to hide the pain that he's in, Warner's practically at his limit. Yet there's still so much to do if he can break free and it's knowing at him.

Y/N struggles to stay on top of it, clawing at its clothes to keep her balance, and she's almost been thrown off multiple times and would have gone down if it weren't for the Losers attacking from every other angle. With anything they can find, they batter it black and blue and don't give it a chance to stop them.

"I c-can't..." He murmurs, his face twisting with worry as he tries to break it, "It won't budge."

Brushing away a spiderweb of regular size happens in a matter of seconds, but this is properly monstrous. It stretches up farther than he can squint to see and what usually is thin strings of silk is nearly thicker than rope and trapping Warner.

"Dad..." His voice shakes and he frantically looks from where It is starting to overpower the Losers to the man above him.

The sound of someone thumping to the ground behind him doesn't reach his ears because all he can think about is the boy begging for help. Oh  _God_ , the look on his face is physically paining him, he can't stand the idea of seeing him in pain.

There's nothing they can do to free him and the idea of that, of having gotten to him and finding him only for him to die right in front of him, is terrifying. It feels like the world is falling apart, it feels like everything's about to slip from his fingertips right when he got it back, he feels-

"Dad!" He shouts, but by the time he turns, it's too late.

The scrape of the cement against his face is what hurts the most, rather than the harsh hit his head took to it or the instant aching in his body upon impact.

It had thrown him like he was merely a child, far enough, hard enough, that he wouldn't be able to recover in time to reach his kid. If it were light enough here, one would be able to see the pinpricks of blood poking through his skin just along his eyebrow where he was horribly scraped by the ground, but even he doesn't register the pain. He doesn't register anything, but the scream.

Warner is wailing in pain and, despite everything, he twists to look and sees it stomping on his ankle.

He hadn't even realized it was injured, neither had he realized the blood coating almost his entire face, but it's obvious as the poor boy screams himself hoarse in the wake of such overwhelming pain and terror. It's like a fire alight inside of him, the anger and the possessive protectiveness; he has to rip it to pieces, he has to kill it until there's nothing left of the thing that hurt his son, he has to-

Before he can move, it moves as swiftly and silently as death and wraps its arms around his little neck in a way that makes everyone, him, Y/N, their friends, and Rowan, who had been about to unleash holy hell on it for harming him stop short in their tracks.

"One quick tug and his neck snaps like a twig," It says, eyes wild in a way that is hauntingly familiar to every one of the adults standing around them.

Bill sneers at it, but hesitates in approaching completely. It has his sole vulnerability and knows it. It has  _everything_  and knows exactly how to use this to its advantage.

Favoring his left foot, Warner shuffles his feet against the ground helplessly and his body is fully shuddering with his sobs. If it weren't pressing down on his throat they would be loud enough to wake up all of Derry. And if his vision weren't blurred by tears, he would see the look of absolute horror on his parents faces. His mother is crying, that much he knows, and he can almost sense her power lying dormant in wait for a moment to strike. Her blind, cold rage is palpable, but he knows it isn't enough to save him. As sure as he knows he's breathing, he knows he won't see them again, at least not in this world.  _On the other side then,_  he decides,  _I'll see them again one day._

"You shouldn't have gotten away," It hisses, "A pathetic little group of children shouldn't have made it away. I hadyou," A subtle tug of its arm closing together around his neck that has Bill's jaw clenching in restraint, Rowan almost scared for the  _Shifter_  at the sight of the anger there.

It's an effort to keep herself upright, so she doesn't, and instead lets herself sag into the steadily flooding puddles along the Cistern floor. Her fist closes around what she snatched off the ground, one of the many lost items of its victims over the years. A part of her had feared it wouldn't work, but the quick glances she managed to steal while everyone was distracted showed it did. She could see the fluid in it. It would work, it had to.

_Warner, I'm going to ask you to do something crazy and you can't freak out._

The voice in his head is frantic, strained, but it's familiar and if it weren't for his current position he'd've sagged with relief at the sound of her sweet voice accompanying him in his last moments.  
_  
What are you talking about?_

The hand gripping him by the head and arm wrapped around his throat make it hard to think at all, let alone process what she's saying to him. It's palm is covering his mouth.

_I need you to listen to me and do exactly as I say. We don't have time!_

The words are loud in her mind,  _Okay, fine, fucking say it then!_

It says, watching his parents with hawk-like eyes, yet not even thinking to watch her, "First, I'm going to kill him," Warner gags at the smell of rotting flesh coming off its breath, "Then-"

She tries to stay as still as possible as to keep it looking at the others, to perhaps make it think it knocked her unconscious while she rallies her strength.

Her closed fist tightens around the object...

_When I say, I need you to hurt it, kick it, stomp on its foot with your good leg, anything you can manage that'll get it to release you for even a moment. Can you do that?_

There's not even a hesitation.

 _Yes_.

The tips of her hair dripping in god knows what from the puddle she'd fallen into, she slowly shifts from where she was laying on the floor. Ever so slowly...

If this fails, then he dies. The rest of them may have a chance to save themselves and kill it, but if Warner dies when they had an opportunity to spare him, none of them will ever be able to forgive themselves. The Losers love him, his parents love him, she-She stops. There's only one shot. No room for mistakes, no second chances.

It's eerily silent in their minds until- _On three._

Nobody else sees her moving, shrouded in shadow and night, farthest from the pack, onto her knees, then to her feet from the dirty floor she'd been thrown upon.

_One._

His heart pounds against his chest rapidly and he prays it can't sense that change in him.  
_  
Two._

Rowan is crouching halfway down, sneaking forward step by step. She only misses alerting it by splashing in a puddle by pure, blind luck. It takes her longer to get to the last number as she approaches, uncurling her first and getting it in position to go as soon as he does it.

Except just as she reaches the base of the web, someone else sees her, her small shrunken over figure crawling towards the source of danger. And she realizes this at the same moment they spot her, whoever it is too far for her to see clearly though she can feel the eye burning into her skin. She knows it isn't the Shifter because she would have been killed before she noticed it found her out.

Her thumb rests on the sparkwheel of the lighter she'd found abandoned on the ground beside her earlier, which had instantly sent her back to the day when she and her father were cleaning the basement when they first moved into the Denbrough's old house. They'd used fire to get rid of the spiderwebs and cobwebs collecting all over the room.

The person opens their mouth to speak, but it's far too late.

She screams it,  _Three!_

It all happens so quickly, the rest of them barely have a moment to duck before Warner bites down on the hand over his mouth and simultaneously stomps down on its foot as the web goes up in flames.

The room is exploding with bright orange light and it's over so quickly, yet to every one of them it feels like time could not be going slower.

Rowan barely had time to duck the quick blast of an inferno surging around her after she flicked on the lighter. She was twisting from it as fast as possible, the small plastic lighter dripping to the floor and her hair flaring out behind her straight into the blooming flame.

She feels the heat on her neck so hot, it feels like her skin is melting.  _Holy fuck, I'm going to catch on fire, my hair caught on fire-_ Her shuffling steps are scrambling and desperate and she doesn't check to look behind her at the flash of fire and the way the web begins to shrivel, instead she dives forward with everything she has to put it out. Never mind how disgusting the sewer water that's now beginning to flood the room is, she crashes to the floor and the water splashes around her; the singed hair that had been set aflame dying out on contact with it. Still, she frantically rolls against the ground, crying out in fear.

She's too preoccupied to see, to have to face what happens next.

But Y/N isn't.

She had seen her crawling towards the web, but had not put together what was happening except for that her son's life would be the price if whatever plan she plotted went awry. But it didn't, the plan went exactly as they planned it to and Warner, though his wrists are literally bubbling with burns, dropped to the ground as soon as the explosive fire shrunk the web and It had to dodge it.

But the distraction would not last. It couldn't last, not against an immortal being like itself. So, he decided between the moment before he bit down on its hand and after the flame freed him from his shackles, he would do it. He was the closest one to the creature and would not take this risk Rowan took for him for granted.

His mother, who knows him better than anyone, perhaps better than even he knows himself, is already on her feet and moving full speed for him, but it's too late.

He stands through his agony, turning and marching towards where it, bathed in the buttery light of the orange flame, has regained its footing. His ankle slows him, but, still, he's closer to it and too swift for her to reach before it happens.

Y/N screams out for him to stop, making everyone look up from where they'd thrown themselves to the ground all as one.

Warner steps up to the ancient being, now feeling no fear or pain or anything other than pure, unadulterated courage, and speaks without stuttering. Bill's pretty sure his heart has stopped beating.

"Let's settle this like men."

They lock eyes...

The Ritual begins.

-

It's barren in this other world in which It was created.

There had been countless descriptions in the notebooks and images he'd crafted in his mind from them of the Macroverse, but being here in person is wholly different.

It's strangely beautiful. Possibly more beautiful than anything he's ever, or will ever, seen.

True blackness surrounds him on all sides, pitch dark, and yet he can see thanks to what must be billions of dazzling little stars around them. Despite these stars, they are not in the sky, they're simply there. Between the edge of his world and another, perhaps millions, of other dimensions. They're standing on nothing, infinity expanding below his feet with boundless, endless intoxicating beauty. It's so breathtaking, he forgets why he's here and where he is.

Here, in this dimension, he feels no pain, while, in the world from which he had came, he'd been enduring it worse than any he's felt. Worse than when he'd thrown himself out the window to banged his head on the wall in Neibolt, back in his world his physical self is tortured with that pain. Yet here...here he has ascended with only his soul taken with him, body left behind, without any of that agonizing hurt.

_A battle of the **mind**..._

Flexing out his hands in front of him, there are no burns residing around his wrists nor is there a crack in his fibula. There is only sprawling, boundless nothing. If he were to be trapped here for twenty-seven years, perhaps he too would lose a few screws in his head and come back trying to end the ones responsible.

"Somehow I always knew it would be you. Even before you were born, I could always sense you lingering there."

The sound of that rasping voice startles him and he whips his head up instantly. The sight he finds scares him, he's not going to lie to himself about that.

Amid the glittering, inky black is a being beyond time and humanity. And he knows it, deep in his gut, that this is not the creature he ventured into this other world for. It feels entirely different from the monster of fright and heartache that he is familiar with. This one is light. This one is good and warm. This one is the balance to It's chaotic existence, fatherly and gentle in his nature.

Towering as a mammoth mass of space above and surrounding him, is the Turtle.

Warner shoves his hands into his pockets upon realizing he isn't in immediate, life-threatening danger, and says softly, "M-M-M- _Me_?"

It's chuckling laughter runs along his bones in a way that reminds him of sitting by the fire with his mother years ago and warm soup or hot chocolate on a snowy winter day. Bill's notebook had described it as talking a certain way, almost like his grandfather does, and it instantly clicks for him. That well-written description had been dead on.

Though it can't physically do it, he feels it cock an eyebrow at him in amusement.

"Why not you?" the Turtle asks him.

Why not him?

There are a billion reasons he can nitpick on why he shouldn't be the one here, why he is the last person on his earth that should be the one to save them all, but he can't put it into words. He's only a child. Not only is he only a child, but he's him. He's a thirteen-year-old nobody from Washington who's life has been the tiniest blip in the timeline of their universe until just last week.

If anything, it should be his parents or someone of actual importance and strength to be doing this. Though he's glad it isn't anyone he loves, he's sure this is one huge mistake.

Warner finds it hard to make eye contact with him, but forces himself to lift his chin and face the good-hearted creature as he would anyone.

"I don't know...I'm just...a k-k-kuh-kid," The utter silence unlike any other in his world that fills the pause he takes is unnerving, "J-Just me."

 _Just_ me. The Turtle nearly laughs.

There's a long pause once again, except this time the silence is different. It's heavy and expectant. It's the kind that tells him the time is now, that there's no more time to prepare or rally his strength...there's just now...just him.

He says, voice older and wiser than any, "I believe in you. I always have," A solemn glance downcast at him, "Never forget that children, kids like yourself, are the most powerful of us all."

The boy staggers forward, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to find something to say that will keep him here so he at least won't be alone in this place with It, but the Turtle begins to disappear. Like ash on a cool wind, he dissolves in between the everlasting night as if he were nothing. And a part of him wonders if he actually had been there or if it was another trick, but the feeling that pools in the pit of his gut says otherwise.

Warner exhales sharply through his nose, fighting the urge to cry.

It's lonely in this dimension and he wants his family. He just wants everything to be over with already, whether that means him in a grave or not.

Lost in a strange new world, he wraps his arms around himself and lets his head rest on his shoulder, a tear blooming and dropping down his cheek. But now is not the time for tears, nor is it the time to give up, because he had only been lucky to have been met by the Turtle first. It could have been something else.

Those beautiful star-like lights glittering upon the world around him seem to gutter out into darkness in the wake of what's approaching. He hadn't wanted Maturin to leave, but hadn't realized that he had to or else he would have come face to face with what Warner came here for.

His stomach drops into his gut when, without warning or time to prepare, It appears before him and those stars plunge into total darkness.

-

In his world, everyone is freaking out. Time passes by far slower in the Other and by the time their son has come face to face with It, they've only managed to get themselves up from the ground from the surge of flame that was the web being destroyed. Dirtier and injured, they all have clambered to their feet and rushed to where his body lay a dead weight on the Cistern floor.

Y/N shakes him violently (hoping that somewhere on the other side he will feel her calling him back to her), but Bill is standing still.

He knows he can't simply stand here while his son is in there. He hadn't been able to save him out here so maybe...maybe he can save him in there.

-

It took the form of something he hadn't anticipated.

It isn't it's true form, not yet, but something far worse. Something he doesn't want to kill.

Its voice is familiar, "Who would've thought it'd be you and me."

Warner grimaces and shakes his head in disbelief.  _No, not **him** , it can't be him_. After all he went through to get over the tensions between them, It turns into the last person he'd like it to.

It's replication of him is impeccable and he finds it difficult to breathe as it steps forward, head tilted and half-smile sinister.

"Fuck you," He spits.

But it only laughs and that makes it ten times worse because he knows that laugh. It's his laugh. The one that haunted his mother for years upon years because it sounded all to much like the man she wished to forget. Somehow, it simultaneously sounds exactly like the man and not like him at all. The laugh is his father's, but at the same time he knows it isn't his. He knows he's being deceived yet he falls for it.

It masks itself in the form of Bill, something he should have seen coming considering that that was the form it took to shake him up in Neibolt last week, and stands there with a coy look on its face as if it weren't preparing to tear his young mind to shreds. Strands of red hair fall forward into its eyes as it observes him curiously.

His heartbeat is so loud, he can almost hear it out loud in the air surrounding them.

"Rowan was easy," It starts, pacing back and forth in front of him, "All I had to do was lure her brother and she came right to me. Her fear...it's delightful, in a way that's different to yours. It's more bitter and lonely, full of grief."

No stutter. He shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head through his tears frantically. It's not him.  _Not him, not him, not him-_

"Alexis, she's too smart. I was too hasty in killing the other boy, cause once he was gone I had nothing on her, not truly."

If he were a weaker person, he would collapse right now and yield to it. He longs so deeply to be that weaker soul and give into the sweet, lulling song of death. It calls to him, swirling and beckoning like a siren's song as it had earlier before Bill saved him and brought him back to life. But this time there's nobody to save him. Perhaps only he can save himself.

The air here feels tighter, harder to gulp down, but he manages and he tries so hard to keep himself going.

There's no use in lying; It is incredibly powerful and it just might overtake him. Despite his own overwhelming well of strength he's drawn from the entire time he's spent in Derry, it might be able to win because he's damn near spent. 

Evil just might prevail over good.

It surges forward at him, grabbing him by the chin and twisting his head upward to look at its imitation of his father's face. It towers over him so intensely he wonders if it did it deliberately, to overwhelm and scare him.

"You're just a hideous little boy, you really thought you had a chance, didn't you?" It says, smiling with teeth that are no longer caked with blood and gore, yet are instead white and normal, but it's just as spine-tingling of a grin, "What are you afraid of?"

His sobs are loud, more child-like than ever, and he shakes his head again, bending into that harsh possessive grip it has on his throat so easily.

It lunges for his mind, but he parries exactly at the right moment, so broken down he's shocked he's still fighting.

The voice goes cold and booming, "Coward! Tell me! Say it! What are you afraid of?"

Warner grits his teeth and shakes his head, the word wavering, "No."

This time when it reaches out for his mind, the blow lands.

He screams out in anguish, bellowing and raw, until there's nothing but rasping breath wheezing from him in place of his cries. The hand on his windpipe makes speaking nearly impossible and yet it wants him to speak. It wants him to say it so it becomes real. So it wins.

But it doesn't know who it's dealing with. Even though he himself can't even see it, there's the spirit of a warrior living inside of him just pleading to break free and wreak its havoc upon the monster. It begs him, praying on its knees, _let me out!_  He doesn't want to though, he wishes to be weak.

He longs to die.

Its blue eyes are wild as it stares him down, shaking him violently as his mother is in his world right now, "You're a minuscule piece of mortal trash, there's a reason why he abandoned you! I should've killed you on sight yesterday for wasting my time! I won't ask you again, what are you afraid of?"

It should realize that all it's doing is provoking that sleeping giant within him, not breaking him, but it doesn't. Not even Warner himself realizes.

Another swift, striking blow to his mind. If he were to see himself as he is in his world, he would see the fresh blood trickling out of his old wound from yesterday and the bruises from his first day here returning to his physical form. Purple, yellow, and blue bloom along his body in patches and the cuts from throwing himself out the window barely begin to reappear as well. Bill is shaking, trying to fight the shell-shock coming over him from the sight of his son's withering form. There is no time left to wait. He needs to take action, he needs to help him, he needs to protect him-

The creature is practically growling at him and it narrows its eyes, speaking,"I n-nuh-never loved you. Not once. You were a m-m-mistake, I didn't even  _want_  you-"

When it wasn't looking, Bill slipped past its defenses and threw himself in. It doesn't register the new presence beside them, doesn't even look because it's so hellbent on ridding itself of what it believes is the only thing in this universe that stands a chance at defeating it if it doesn't do this.

It gets a firm grip on the boy's mind, landing hit after hit as he begins to decompose in his screaming mother's arms in the other realm, and doesn't let up. His cuts are all bleeding profusely and the fractured bone in his ankle cleaves entirely in two. It doesn't even occur to him that he's dying, not once. All that exists is this world and the great expanse of nothingness that is suffocating him.

"WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?" It asks.

It isn't Bill who sends him his strength, it isn't anyone, it comes from within. The surge of power and strength was inside of him all along. He had to recall what the Turtle had told him, the truth that many seem to not acknowledge. He's looking into his father's eyes and though he truly knows it is not him, he knows his answer. Looking up into the eyes that are a reflection of his own, he knows that he has feared him his entire life.

 _Never forget that children, kids like yourself, are the most powerful of us all._  
  
Warner, damn near gone, hanging onto the edge of everything and nothing, screams loud enough to deafen anything else that dares to get in his way, "I'M AFRAID OF  _YOU!_ "

The words roar through this other place and they wake up the stars, sending darkness fleeing for cover as light flares through this world and it simply swallows it whole. Beautiful, warm light rises above them so brightly Warner has to shut his eyes and it begins to melt the creature holding him. Pale skin bubbles with burns and it's blue eyes shift to yellow, panic clear in them, as the warrior within him that had remained trapped has finally broken free.

It provoked the wrong kid.

Bill watches in awe, having been frozen up until now by the scene unfolding before him. Never would you expect so much power to be lying idle underneath the skin of a child. But he snaps out of it quickly, the trance the beauty of the light his son summoned has put him under, and he steps forward carefully.

A hero can be found in the most unsuspecting of people apparently, Warner realizes, and doesn't let it get another hit to his mind. He dodges every desperate, pathetic attempt.

"I w-was afraid of him before, but..." He trails off, making Bill halt a step behind him, "I s-s-shuh-shouldn't have been. And, even if I were still scared of my dad, you could  _never_  be him."

Somewhere far away, wrapped in loving arms, the blood begins to disintegrate from his skin and the cuts rapidly start to close. The color, that had been leeched from his skin until he became sickly and the color of pale parchment, returns to his skin in full.

It is starting to shift into its true form, he can tell. Two yellow eyes multiply into eight, the pale skin tone he recognizes as his father's begins to bleed into grey, but not even shifting can save it from his wrath. While it begins to shift into a spider, the body he left lying limp in his mother's arms is reviving. The bruises are fading already, even the concussion and the brutal trauma it caused to his head...it's all beginning to disappear.

He's  _healing_  himself.

"Even if you take his form, look e-e-e-exactly like him, I know the d-d-difference," While he speaks, looking down on it with nothing but ire, Bill has tears in his eyes, "He's good and pure, he's everything you could never be no matter h-how hard you try!"

And just when he thinks the flare of the light he summoned is starting to dim, just when he thinks he might not have enough in him to finish this, he feels a hand rest on his shoulder.

The touch is safe, gentle, and he doesn't have to turn to know who's hand it is that's gripping his shoulder. No, of course he doesn't need to see him to know, he can  _feel_  it. He can feel him lingering there beside him, the love and pride and fatherly protection. But he looks anyway, he turns and finds the man he'd once feared standing there with a bittersweet smile. And he's sad for a moment, that they didn't get the time together that they very much deserved, but none of that matters anymore. All that matters is now, this. Sending the devil away and letting it rot in hell for all the pain it's caused their family.

Bill's voice wraps around him like smooth velvet, making the light intensify brighter and brighter and brighter.

"You can do this," A pause as he squeezes his shoulder tightly, "I'm r-r-right here and she's w-waiting for you back there...I love you," His voice breaks, "more than you'll ever know."

The clean break in his ankle, the last of his horrible wounds to stay behind after all he's done, completely heals together at that and the light shines so brightly, so hot that all he's to do is watch as it is scorched brutally by it.

He squares his shoulders and stands up straight, still digging himself further and further into the horror of the creature's mind in an attempt to clear it out clean until nothing remains. It does scare him, what he finds as he plunges far into its mind, but it's not crippling. It doesn't petrify him as it once would have because he has him here by his side, supportive and guiding. After all these years, a conclusion to the mystery he's been chasing his whole life.

Warner smiles, a soft huff of air falling from his lips, and digs into the very end of the seemingly limitless expanse of the monster's mind only to find that it wasn't really all that powerful to begin with. Only to find that what Bill had written in the notebooks years ago had been correct. The only power it has is derived from fear. And he stopped feeling it as soon as that light exploded across Its realm and when he felt the hand on his shoulder.

If only for a mere moment, he's invincible.

He whispers to it, sickeningly sweet, "I t-t-t-told you, the only one m-m-meeting their end tonight is you..."

And, for the last time tonight, he hesitates, unsure of what it is he wants to say, but then he feels it. Like a gold, glittering warmth he feels hope. For a life of peace and love. For a world where children don't have to live in fear, where they aren't forced to be the protectors and the ones to save them all. For a world without darkness. That's it, he decides, that's all he wants.

It has almost melted into nothing and its eyes remain, unblinking and full of rage staring into Warner's soul.

He does not back down.

"I'll s-see you in hell."

And so they beat the devil.

-

Coming back to from the other side, from that world of darkness and night that he turned into the very essence of light, was not what he remembered it to be.

The last time he had been too preoccupied with Y/N and fearing that she might die to notice anything else, but this time it's different. Without the threat of imminent death for the person he loves so dearly, coming out of the Ritual had been a moment of silence and peace, even if it did not last. He awoke on the Cistern floor with blood dripping from his nose and eyes and, of course, from the nasty scrape he'd gotten earlier in the night. But he didn't care. All he cared for was them. His family, his son, his love, his friends. That was all that mattered now that, together, they conquered evil.

So, as soon as he gained consciousness he rushed to where they were. Where he was lying in her arms, eyes barely open and looking up at her, dazed and utterly exhausted. All of them were crying, Rowan and their friends included. And then they embraced. The three of them, together, reunited after far too many painful years apart, held on tight for what felt like an eternity.

For once in their lives, the darkness had guttered out for good and with it went everything. The forgetting, the scars on their palms, even the connection between Rowan and Warner's minds, whatever it may have been. It went away when they sent It to death.

The sun is warm on his skin where he sits, Warner next to him, on the curb in front of Mike's house.

He winces at the sting of the antiseptic seeping into the cuts along his left eyebrow, the wound still having yet to scab over completely since it's only been a full day since he got it.

It had been too hectic in that day following It's demise. Though they thankfully didn't have to deal with Warner's wounds, which would have been catastrophic had they not healed, they were all so tired. Especially Warner.

They had to take a break, even if it were only a day, to recover before they sorted their things and said goodbye to Derry.

Eddie had been the first to go and that goodbye was the hardest. After hours of putting it off he finally just had to bite the bullet and do it or else none of them would've ever left. None of them want to part with one another, but they have lives. They have responsibilities and, some of them, have family. The rest of them had gone one after the next, slowly. And every time before one left, the tears would return and they all would turn into affectionate, sobbing messes of emotion, exchanging numbers and swearing that this time they would keep in touch no matter what is to come.

Beverly, the last to leave before them, left only minutes ago. Mike said goodbye to them early to drive her to the airport and so this leaves them alone.

Y/N is packing up the rest of her things inside while they wait for her on the curb, Warner dabbing a folded piece of paper towel damp with rubbing alcohol on his forehead in focus.

The summer air is humid and sticks to them like glue, heavy and hot in a way they're oddly thankful for, considering the fact that the storm that flooded the sewers a day ago made it bone-chillingly cold when they came to on the cold floor after the Ritual. They were talking, though it was all small useless talk about shit that doesn't matter, but now they sit in quiet. Only the chirping of the birds and the breeze fluttering the leaves up in the treetops fills that quiet.

Warner's been wanting to say something for the last few minutes, but he isn't sure how to word it or if it'll come out right.

He ends up blurting out, "I d-don't know if I'm ready to have a dad yet."

And the confusion on Bill's face sends him into a panic to fix whatever he must have said wrong, opening and closing his mouth like a gaping fish.

The hand holding the paper towel, tinged with red from the few remnants of dried drops of blood that had crusted to the edge of the scrape, falls into his land with a frustrated exhale falling from him at the same time. It's been bottled up inside him ever since he woke up this morning and all that had happened underneath the town had hit him with the force of a train. It was when he was standing sluggishly over the guest bathroom sink, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, that he remembered what he called him as all hell had broken loose. It wasn't that he didn't mean it, he did, but...Bill watches his face closely as he works through it all in his head.

"I mean, I know you and my m-m-m-mom like..." He shrugs, "l-love each other and you're important to each other, but I don't know if I'm r-r-ready for the whole family thing yet," He sees Bill take a breath as if he were about to speak and cuts him off, scared that he said too much, "A-A-And I'm s-sorry if that's mean or anything but I just...need time."

There it is.

Out in the open after hours of him pouring over the words, watching him and the rest of them hugging goodbye or when his eyes had been unconsciously following him during breakfast.

It feels stupid to him that he's this worked up over having to explain something like this to him, but he is. He wishes he could magically be ready for a life with the three of them together, he wishes it were that simple, but it isn't and he isn't ready for everything to suddenly change. It was years he spent alone with his mother, years, and this monumental kind of shift can't happen this fast or else he's sure he'd go mad. Already, these past two weeks have been an absolute whirlwind of emotion and he'll need time to process it all. Two weeks ago he didn't even have a clue of who his father might be and now look where he is! He's sitting right beside him.

The breeze blows the hair back from his forehead and he finally gets the courage to meet his gaze, turning slowly to look over at him.

"W-Why are you crying?" Bill asks softly.

He hadn't noticed his own tears...

Warner decides to be honest, "I t-t-thought you'd be mad...I'm s-sorry I'm crying, I know I shouldn't be. I hate it, it makes me feel w-w-weak."

There's the sound of his mother pushing open the front door far behind them and that only makes the embarrassment worse. Usually, he can cry in her presence, but this is different and all he wants to do right now is disappear.

But then Bill stops, looks him up and down, and says to him, "Vulnerability isn't weakness, you don't ever have to apologize f-f-f-for crying."

This simply breaks him.

He slumps into his side, burying his face in the man's shirt, and hugs him with his arms tucked around his chest as tightly as he can manage.

Though it was a bit of a shock at first, the sudden contact and Warner actually being trusting enough after such limited time together to be close like this, Bill relaxes into the touch, he savors it. Because, in his life at least, you can never know when someone you love will be taken from you. One second everything may appear to be fine, then the next everything has fallen apart. So he wraps his arms around him and lets him stay there for as long as he'd like while they wait for Y/N to tell them they're going to leave.

He runs a hand up and down his arm in comfort, murmuring, "I can w-wait as long as you need to until you're ready to have a dad. Of c-c-c-course I love your mother and of course I want everything to go back to the way it used to be, but if you need time, that's what I'll give you."

It's quiet and whispered into his shirt, but he still hears him when he squeezes him tightly and says, "Thank you."

They stay like this for a few very long moments, Warner getting out all of the tears that have bottled up over the entire duration of his time in Derry and Bill just silently appreciating the time he manages to get with him, before the sound of someone's heavy steps on the pavement of the street makes his head pop up from where it had been fixed into the bend of his dad's neck.

If it weren't for his new acquaintances, he would have died the second he stepped foot in this town. Sure, he had saved Jack and Alexis first, but they saved him right back. They patched him up and gave him shelter, they carried him to safety. Without each other, none of them wouldn't have made it.

And then there's her...Rowan.

She's standing at the edge of the front walkway to Mike Hanlon's house, his temporary place of residence for the time he'd spent here recovering from the wicked concussion it gave him at the Creep House.

Without her-oh god, without her he doesn't even want to think about where he'd be right now. She saved his sorry ass on more than one occasion and never once did her loyalty, for a boy she's only known for a few weeks, falter. If she hadn't shot It when he'd been cornered a week ago, he wouldn't have had the chance to kill it, if she hadn't given him the notebooks to read through about the Ritual of Chüd, he wouldn't have had the chance to kill it, and if she hadn't saved his life when he was this close to death in the Cistern with her quick wits, everyone would be dead by now.

He owes everything to that girl.

Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her shorts, her hair (which is now chopped to her shoulders since the fire had singed it off) gently drifting off her collarbones in the breeze. She looks different. A good kind of different that makes his chest feel fluttering and light.

Their stare lasts a little too long before Bill clears his throat, making the both of them jolt.

"Uh," Warner stammers and looks back and forth between the two, "I-I-"

She looks at Bill, then finds herself glancing at where Y/N is lifting a suitcase into the trunk of her car, and asks, "Can I borrow him for a second? Just to say bye?"

Observing the strange awkward tension between the two teenagers, he stands, thankful for any reason to not be caught between whatever it is is going on with them, and nods.

"S-S-Sure," He says, giving Warner a hand to help him up from the curb, then adds as he sees them move to walk off, "J-Just don't wander too far, okay?"

Both kids give a halfhearted agreement, smiling awkwardly at him, and start to walk down in the direction of the street opposite to where he knows his parents will be waiting for him in the car.

He tries not to already become too much of a worrying helicopter parent, actually tries hard to be the opposite of that, but he can't help but look over his shoulder curiously as he starts to walk to the car. His brows furrow at the sight of the two of them walking together and it's only after a moment of them talking, too far away for him to hear, that he finally turns and looks ahead to give them privacy.

The car is packed, with her stuff and his, since they checked him out of his hotel room last night and he spent the night here with her, and all there's left to do is leave (when their son comes back, obviously). But there's still a piece of his heart holding onto this place for reasons he can't place. Maybe it's that this is where he grew up or all the history they have together here, but he can't help but stop and get a glimpse of the place before they leave it forever.

He's standing, leaning against the hood of the car staring off in the direction that he knows faces his old house, when he hears her voice from behind him.

"Despite everything that happened to us here, leaving this place always feels strange for me."

Bill whips his head around to see her walking to him, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her pants. She does that a lot, he's noticed. Usually when she's nervous or wants to stop fidgeting with her hands, but this whole time he's noticed her do it a lot.

"It feels weird for me too," He admits.

The sound of the sighing trees accompanies his swirling thoughts as he stands there, face blank, and waits for her to say whatever it is he can tell is on her mind. She took up the spot next to him and hasn't yet said a word, but he waits and wait and waits, and after a while of resting her head on his shoulder, it comes out.

"We haven't talked about what's gonna happen when everything goes back to normal again..." Y/N says.

"What do you m-m-mean?"

She turns and looks up at him, letting on hand trail up and back down the length of his arm as she finds the words.

Both of their worlds have been entirely changed. Her life that she'll return to back home in Pennsylvania will be different, his life will be different, everything will change and though she's welcoming of any kind of new happiness she'll get, she wonders if he's on the same page. Or if the other day was just them getting caught up in the past and it was a one-time thing they did only because they thought they were going to be dead the next day...

She had meant everything she said and did the other night.

"I don't know where to start with  _us_ ," Y/N looks down, fiddling with the edge of his shirt sleeve to avoid having to look at him, "I mean," A soft laugh, "These past two weeks are the first time I've seen you in over a decade, Bill, and all of it has been crazy. I guess I'm asking if you want to start over. With Warner, with me, and with everything really."

And he almost laughs. At the fact that she didn't already know the answer, that she even thought for a second that it might be anything but yes.

Still, he stops, lifts her chin to face him, and kisses her. It's gentle, sweet, and she falls into him completely at it and has to hold onto him by bracing her hands on his shoulders to keep herself upright. But once she's sure she's not about to topple them both over, she kisses him back. After all this time, all is as it should be and neither of them know how to feel about it.

It's a long while before they let each other go.

Bill presses another soft peck to her lips, smiling at the sound of her lilting laughter filling the small space between them, and finally says, "I w-w-w-want all of it. You, him...I want my life back."

Her smile is so bright it makes his heart ache with longing, with love, a feeling he's missed desperately these past eleven years.

"Let's go home."

Home, he repeats it in his mind over and over as he holds her in his arms, he's finally home.


End file.
